Criccieth

This evening’s gibbous moon is a blood orange,

rising over Snowdonia’s ranges

and Criccieth Castle’s promontory,

shining its rippled beams across the waves

unerringly towards us. Much later

it transforms into a gleaming silver, moving

south and high over Harlech Castle,

that towers above the far, dark shore.

 

From first light the sand and shingle beach,

beneath our windows, is lined with the black,

triangular paraphernalia

of solitary sea anglers. Diligent

environmentalists they return

each bream, and bass, and dab into the sticky,

salty vestiges of the Gulf Stream,

and stow away their gear like good children.

 

As the storm-gauge falls, the day turns humid, still,

and haze, out in the bay, mid-afternoon,

thickens into a smoke-grey cloud that seems

to hover just above the surface

of the glassy sea. Horizontal lightning

sparks and flashes, flashes and sparks, and thunder

rumbles briefly. The storm dwindles, becoming

a rain shower, and the bay begins to clear.

In the dusk we can almost see the castles.

Tonight the moon is gold.