beside the grave of abram wood
king of the gypsies
Old Cymru’s harp plays the tune
and here in the quiet valley
I hear a song in the sound of the breeze.
Seven centuries came together
and memories are dripping from the leaves
Harp of the wind once more awake,
Cheers the mind when peace departs.
The poet’s pen recounts
what moves the tongues of seers.
Songs we’ve learned beneath the bushes,
Let our meeting and our parting.
Be like harpist’s hands in music’s embrace.
A stone and book shall tell the tale.
As Abram’s spirit touch’d her hand
Her harp was wet with tears –
The pagan wonders to our gypsy tribe –
Harp of the mountain,
do not be silent now?
Here’s where he’s laid, there so low
looks over at old Bardsey’s sleeping saints.
And we remember the charm of that string
that could turn a winter day into spring.
Echoes of him whose harp could move the dead.
frances Roberts reilly
Below, Llangelynin church where Abram Wood is buried.