Journey to the Gower

Journey to the Gower

Steel and chemicals stretch for miles on this Port Talbot coast.
A sulphur stench taints the sea breeze sniffed by dogs.

Through the grey towers and grim chimneys
Modern history appears in great puffs of smoke.

Cruise ten miles down the crowded coastal road
Out to re-built Swansea town, and negotiate the traffic.

Beyond the university and on around the bay
The Mumbles lies like the tail of a city,

Servile and sullen in its big brother's shadow.
A meretricious mummer, The Mumbles waves away the steam

Of the distant power station cooling stacks,
Offset and opposite.

Unworthy thus, it is still a gateway to the Gower.
And through this street of a town to the edge and out,

Go up the thin, steep road with the sea one side,
Onto this peninsular of sand and cliff and moor -

More an island where thoughts of petrol and metal
Are turned by the calm command of the landscape.

Round again, and round to Langland and to Caswell
With their Grande Hotels and happy little beaches.

Further up, change down to pass the mobile homes
And caravan plots and camping sites with showers.

Turn west into less developed settlements,
To the gentle rise of grazing hills and farmland

(Here the gentler light sets off the high view).
Drawn down there to the coast, follow this silent road

And accept an odd offer to turn in.
Inside here the destination is a turning with a sign

For a small plain road of little note.
Decline from inland to the low and reedy marshland

Along this dull lane, and be struck
By the resounding expanse of Oxwich Bay.

*
On foot I stand and stare again at this outstanding view,
only to be stirred by a quiet thought:

this is a strange place to feel peace, but peace it is.
Out there, the sea's surface moves in that relentless breeze;

to the right, above, the steady church with its old tower
Stands certain on a cliff edge in a damp green wood;

far around left, the sands spread and curve
to tall sandy cliffs topped by grass moors,

themselves a walk east to the greater sands of Rhossilly;
behind, the small hotel; behind the small hotel,

a steep footpath through trees up to the shattered castle walls.
And all this, no more than a place.

I choose to stroll with others to the church again,
to glance around and maybe read some headstones in the rain.

They tell of infant deaths and brave men lost at sea,
of beloved daughters leaving parents too soon,

of whole families come together in the ground.
And all these brief words dissolve in this weather over time,

their stab at some earthly permanence betrayed.
Why come to this place in all its average beauty?

Birds twitter and dogs sniff, children shout and splash.
The sea turns and tumbles to the shore once more

and the black rocks wear down never in lifetimes.
What brings me here I cannot grasp

when finally with time I do come back.
In my sound, industrious, modern mind

I suspect I come simply to be reminded
of no more than my place.