'Capital' by John Tripp

Capital

This will be the last ditch to fall

to the swing of its country.

Significance blowing down the hills

dies on the wind. Here the puffed

clink in their chains of office,

and the hagglers squat like a junta.

It is still as separate as an arm

lopped from its body: a strange sleeve

of territory spilled across the border.

What time has so carelessly mixed

clots here, where the ideals sag

and roots sprout only on the surface.

As long as I remember, the droll warmth

of its people has blurred

when our flag is lifted. Mouths are stitched.

Nothing is put to close scrutiny;

a knotted topic is flicked

into the bin, with a grin for Wales.

But now, in the distance, I think I hear

the young villagers build our future,

laying the first bricks of change.

This capital means less to them

than the land, where everything stems.

'Wait', they are saying. 'Wait for us'.

JOHN TRIPP