Pennard Castle, Gower
Clad in mannish garb, blood-smeared and thirsty,
a girl cleaved to his side like a prize, the Chief
slathered his face in pink pork innards.
When dainty lights shone along the soft sand
of Three Cliffs Bay, he cast the golden girl aside,
reached for his sword, found only faeries
dancing around moonbeams, their voices reaching
like birds to the stars. Army men jabbed
at the fae like pieces of poultry, turned
their sweet notes to shrieks in the deadened night.
They took flight, letting their words ring across
the bay, raising a storm of umber sand
to choke a strangulated roar. When the sun rose
again over Pennard Castle, its bricks were worn,
its guts spilling out like a feast.