TONY CONRAN

Blodeuwedd

Elegy for the Welsh dead, in the Falkland Islands, 1982

Gwyr a aeth Gatraeth oedd ffraeth eu llu.

Glasfedd eu hancwyn, a gwenwyn fu.

                            - Y Gododdin (6th century)

(Men went to Catraeth, keen was their company.

They were fed on fresh mead, and it proved poison.)

Men went to Catraeth. The luxury liner

For three weeks feasted them.

They remembered easy ovations,

Our boys, splendid in courage.

For three weeks the albatross roads,

Passwords of dolphin and petrel,

Practised their obedience

Where the killer whales gathered,

Where the monotonous seas yelped.

Though they went to church with their standards

Raw death has them garnished.

Men went to Catraeth. The Malvinas

Of their destiny greeted them strangely.

Instead of affection there was coldness,

Splintering iron and the icy sea,

Mud and the wind's malevolent satire.

They stood nonplussed in the bomb's indictment.

Malcolm Wigley of Connah's Quay. Did his helm

Ride high in the war line?

Did he drink enough mead for that journey?

The desolated shores of Tegeingl,

Did they pig this steel that destroyed him?

The Dee runs silent besides empty foundries.

The way of the wind and the rain is adamant.

Clifford Elley of Pontypridd. Doubtless he feasted.

He went to Catraeth with a bold heart.

He was used to valleys. The shadow held him.

The staff and the fasces of tribunes betrayed him.

With the oil of our virtue we have annointed

His head, in the presence of foes.

Philip Sweet of Cwmbach. Was heshy before girls?

He exposes himself now to the hags, the glance

Of the loose-fleshed whores, the deaths

That congregate like gulls on garbage.

His sword flashed in the wastes of nightmare.

Russell Carlisle of Rhuthun. Men of the North

Mourn Rheged's son in the castellated vale.

His nodding charger neighed for the battle.

Uplifted hooves pawed at the lightning.

Now he lies down. Under the air he is dead.

Men went to Catraeth.Of the forty-three,

Certainly Tony Jones of Carmarthen was brave.

What did it matter, steel in the heart?

Shrapnel is faithful now. His shroud is frost.

With the dawn men went. Those forty-three,

Gentlemen all, from the streets and byways of Wales,

Dragons of Aberdare, Denbigh and Neath -

Figment of empire, whore's honour, held them.

Forty-three at Catraethdied for our dregs.