The Last Dragon
(on the advent of the new Welsh Assembly)
by Tris Kerslake
From the dark I came, from slate-black hills and mountains tasked by gales where echoes of the golden lays of history and legends of the old men fall from sight. I flowed with waters not my own, with bloodied sighs I grasped the dawn.
Filled with heat and life I culled my growing years upon the ribs of coal, pressed hard by discontent and grief, burning meadow hours without due care so that my feeble wings could never hold the wind, and breath was held a captive in my mouth.
All alone I searched for others of my kind, through numb and empty space and hidden latitudes I crawled, fading from the dreams of English saints and feared no more. I coiled within the worn out land to sleep my last, unmarked, unknown, unsung.
Lullabied by hymns of miners with their lamp-blind Bible words I sense a change as my form amazes breathless engineers who cannot see me whole, but know the beauty of a single scale, caressed by awe and I begin to rise.
Sinewed neck unbows as back and claws and teeth and bones unite my form, and raise my giant wings, greeting kin who name me with a soaring voice, and call me out upon the mountains and the sea to see in truth the dragon has survived.