1.3.17
It rains so often
in our stormy world,
but your spokes always lock
in a hemisphere above my head;
and I can float through our people’s wit,
hanging by one arm beneath your wing.
For some, you simply can’t be opened,
but rolling you tight
lends a Welsh spring
to our step;
and we lift you, like a narrow flag,
to guide visitors to our history,
to an alternate reality, that’s open to all…
You are that brolly,
that melds our world,
as long as you’re jointly held,
– whether open or furled…