Requiem for the Static King (Part 2)

Glyndwr gave me a false trail.
Up through the woods,
too far east.

Relentless rain,
the smell of sheep.
Bluebells blooming in borderlands.

It’s almost as if I can smell his presence,
1,220 years after Offa’s passing.
These rough turf ramparts
and the dogged ditch.

He is here in this landscape,
shedding tears for those
he has lost on Tryfan’s sharp sides.

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