R S THOMAS YN EGLWYS-FACH
©John Hedgecoe
Gŵyl Lenyddol a Chystadleuaeth Farddoniaeth R S Thomas 2026
Enillwyr
GWOBR GYNTAF: JULIA FORSTER
Phytophthora ramorum
Pre-emptive felling meant the field opposite us
is pocked with tree stumps mimicking milk teeth
(just one larch was spared the chainsaw's jaws).
At night, its branches brush our slate roof
like I used to stroke my baby's chest to sleep,
softly. A maternal roost of pipistrelles stirs.
Come autumn, we tread spent needles into carpets,
our acrobatic cat climbs pink, fissured bark.
In the photograph of my daughter's last day,
the larch is also captured, a constant background
hum in our lives -like love, like laughter.
This spring when I spotted a limpness
in larch's browning boughs, its trunk, weeping,
it felled me: motherhood means relinquishing.
........................................................
AIL WOBR: HELEN COOK
Quarryman's Bwthyn, Nant Gwrtheyrn
To live and to work, there is only a sliver between them.
The front room is an arm-stretch width;
black range bullies the space
warm in winter, wool dripping dry above,
stifling in summer, kettle steaming still;
sepia grandparents and jug-laden dresser,
biscuit tin rattling with small-dreams coppers,
rag-rug over setts fashioned by laid's hands
from the leaning mountain's scars.
Every hand hammer, drill, iron wheel-hauling, tram pull.
Steep stairs to shared beds, lace at windows,
bottom drawers filled with dainties,
a tidy coat mothballed among Sunday Best,
chamber pots modest in dusty corners,
creaking frames, darned sheets, carthenni;
birth and death, sleeping and loving
played out on scratchy mattresses
beneath bare-boned rafters, hardy slates.
Muscle and sinew tell him he lives a life.
In the scullery wind shoots under the door,
enters the work room without being asked;
coldwater tap, stone sink for red-raw knuckles,
a place of women, of endless toil;
the table too small, Da sure of his place
sitting down with grit under his nails,
salt and rock chiseled into his skin.
And the sea stretches away for an eye's reach.
........................................................
CANMOLEDIG IAWN: ALINA CONGREVE
The Corbett Arms Hotel
Salt wind works through the empty square.
Churchl cinema, and public house
face. the hotel in silence:
four walls listening.
Once, a harp sounded where beer was drawn.
Its landlord, Griffrth Owen, played the strings.
Wales knew his name; in London too,
they listened.
His children were baptised across the road:
Corbet, Jane, Elizabeth, Owen, Edward.
Beneath Cadfan's roof, Welsh words
still speak in stone.
Later, Catherine kept the keys -
widow and proprietress, books to balance,
guests to feed, an omnibus
meeting every train.
Now wind has the run of the rooms.
Paint lifts. Ivy enters
where the glass fails.
The MagiC Lantern opens its doors.
From Cadfan's stone, pilgrims set out.
And the hotel -
waits.
It was never empty.
........................................................
CANMOLEDIG IAWN: AVI ALLEN
Welsh Water
I pull up by the now tourist lake
leaving an unopened Welsh Water bill
on the passenger seat
crouching at the edge of this parched low
I notice hints of resistance
foundations of lived in dry stone walls
stumps of once fruiting orchards
concrete covered graves with a few
resolutely resting within
rhythmic ripples echo the beat of feet
approaching Liverpool
unable to stint the inevitable flow
my hand holds the weight of the capel key
turning its last
the final lick and fold of an envelope
maybe a birthday card
the last drips from the kitchen tap
before the outage
walking back to my car I spot
memorial plaques placed by Welsh Water
designating un-important historical sites
I open the bill like so many do
to read what I owe
and reconfigure that outstanding debt
from them to us
........................................................
Cynhelir gŵyl eleni er cof annwyl am ei sylfaenydd, Joy Neal, a fu farw ym mis Rhagfyr 2024.
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