Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


Natasha Borton


         The drowned, the damned, the dead village.


         Cwm Tryweryn

         Capel Celyn

         Llyn Celyn

          Tryweryn Reservoir

         Afon Tryweryn


The people aren’t thirsty,

dehydrated by greed

in the grey City.


clear, crystal, piped liquid.


The engines

lap at rusted lips

in search of ancestry.


drill bits tongue the ground

honey suckle

the unquenched gulp of

thick crude oil.


When men sit

with frosted mud ale


the cistern turns

emits a pale gas too

pass the time

the land is theirs.





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