Inspired by her experience of working with the Welsh National Opera, Joanna Jones’ poem considers the rich history that lives within a national song.

A winter chill carries the Welshman’s song
Through puddled streets and lamp-struck fallen leaves
Honeyed mead bubbling from young, tender tongue
And kiss-chapped lips raw from bittersweet deeds.
That same voice echoed through soot-blackened mines
Warming the warren with exultant odes
To sweat-slicked mountains and hoarse battle cries
Of nation and valour and sins homegrown.
That clash and clamour is sunk in the soil
The ring of swords drowned in clogged city drains
And coal mine choristers crumble and spoil
Their faces forgot while the song remains.
Echoes of ages in copper-tint mud
Hum down the pavement and burn in the blood.

To ensure that you never miss a future issue of the print magazine, subscribe from just £24 for 4 issues.