Llawhaden Castle (Poetry)

Atop a hill, the ruin sits aloof,
intimidating still, its grey walls cast
a haughty look, although they lack a roof,
were splendid once but power didn’t last.

Castle upon castle — built — restored,
the shadow of a seige still haunts the stone,
great bishops came and went, each passing lord
left his mark and made the place his own.

Some added towers, fortified, designed
elaborate additions — vaulted themes,
or plumped for comfort — stylish and refined,
with fireplaces, new kitchens and latrines.

Much more sophisticated and unique —
the Tower-porch, five-storied, standing proud,
proclaimed the owner’s rank and still it speaks
down centuries, a message vain but loud.

Scarred battlements enclosed a place of prayer,
war’s prisoners could hear that chapel bell
from dungeons deep below the altar’s stair —
like chimes from Heaven filtering through Hell.

The years have since set all those spirits free,
what’s left is just one more abandoned home —
the cold remains of feudal history
decaying, losing stature, stone by stone.