Home can be made ancient of stone
It is more beautiful than anything,
A flock amid green grass,
Sitting near the River Wye and Tawe,
Hidden and secluded in mountains green
By hills covered in tall trees with leaves of gleem.
It’s quiet with a peaceful healing,
As you enter through its hills
It’s roof is windows and still shadows thrill.
One of the past long, but not forgotten
The Maker left a window here to an infinite ceiling.
And yet, being old doesn’t necessarily mean broken,
This place is at least a thousand centuries old,
But it still bares much beauty,
So many still call it home, perhaps it’s the pièce de résistance:
The masterpiece, for artist, poets and the writer.
With it’s rocky columns and the hollowed out windows,
And archways overhead; so magnificent and lovely,
Wales is where I call home and it never ceases to catch my attention
Where it’s alive, and green with grass covering the floor,
Tranquil atmosphere surrounding, evermore
Where there never was such more an amazing place,
Or as astounding,
Looking out my window,
As in this place I call home.