Hiraeth is walking up Cadair Idris on Midsummer, hoping
To come back down a poet. It is smiling at the word smwthio as you iron
The lines out of your once-a-year shawl, worn
With a felt leek on St David’s Day.
It is seeing the mountains as you drive down the M5
And knowing home is near, even if
You’ve lived across the border
These long years.
Hiraeth remembers. Capel Celyn. Llywelyn ap Gruffudd. Aberfan.
It chairs the bards and, with circles of stone
Marks the scars of words into the land.
Hiraeth is knowing dragons exist, or waiting on St Dwynwen’s
For that celebration kiss. It is the different words for milk
One North, one South. Mountains and Valleys.
It is rebellious princes, and mining pride,
Black gold and full high streets and song.
It is remembering an idyll
That, if ever existed, has gone.