Commemoration
Below the slate line where Ogwen Bank's parked,¹
Where the quarry's funereal lava lies,
Is a tumble of sheets - and one was earmarked:
A young holidaymaker, loath to vandalize
With hackneyed graffiti, left real-life scratchings
Of developmental interest to ward off anonymity
And pinpoint his place in the scheme of things
With that gift children have for the nitty-gritty.
The words of the scribe that measured up to his youth?
'KINGSWINFORD 20/9/96 TONY LOST HIS TOOTH.'
I deduce that it speaks of a wound not dealt out -
Of the stubborn nature of flesh not man
(Which he'd be pleased if more vaguely spelt out
For creeping disillusion's painful scan); -
That openness to feelings was the family piety
And would scarce release a boy in thrall
To himself with 'self-conscious' codes of propriety.
For, self-wrapt, he assumes as common to all
His natural feeling for corporeal history:
Pegs knocked that are calamity or shed that are victory!
But, theming himself, he'd reached introspection:
With a universal tusk he'd engraved a setting
For the jewel that self is. Faceted to perfection
By carving bounds between ourselves and our setting,
Self wanted for no tooth to test the limits
Of his control over events or environment. The plaque
Would fit any tale of striving that licks