A long metal tongue

rattles in the lock-gate’s throat,

is rewarded by a gush, then a rush,

and his twin then winds his reply;

two giants lazily loll

on ancient hinges,

and then obediently part

before a narrow boat’s nose.


This water

marks the border of my past

– over one of these bridges,

a droving century and more ago,

John Evans crossed from another time,

led his ponies, down from the mountain,

and onwards to distant Barnet fair;

the first from our family

who took Welsh to the city…


But he returned,

as I do today,

re-crossed this industrial Jordan,

pausing perhaps, to eye a muscular cob

waiting for its boat, with its load of lime

to be exalted by water


the gates swing open again

-and our history flows once more…

Back to Ifor ap Glyn – Commissioned Poems