CRICKHOWELL:

That place where the dragons once danced & leapt,

Where the long-dead ancestors once toiled & stepped,

That pretty little town where folks still greet & smile,

And sweet wee cottages are garbed in old brick & tile.

Nestled deep in the bosom of Black mountain & vale,

Tickled by Cold River, taunted by white-snow & icy-hail,

Sunbeams sometimes visit, just to check on all things,

Then fly away again on plumes of old crow´s black wings.

The butcher, the baker, the tinker & the old coaching inn,

All is served with warm smiles & laced with cold ale & gin,

Those lovely little shops in lanes & old meandering streets,

Necklaced by green fields where the wooly sheep bleat.

Pretty little town, crowned in flowers & hugged by trees,

Where I smell my belonging wafting upon old Welsh breeze,

Thank you for having me stay & for showing me the way,

And one day I shall return, I promise, one day, one day.