So sad to see you here, dry-docked;
Chained fast to rough-hewn harbour wall,
By manacles that hold you land-locked,
Responsive no more to the rise and fall Of the ocean swell; embracing the keel,
Caressing the stern, a lover and friend
Whose touch you welcome.
Do you feel Any sense of sadness at journeys end? Princess disguised, changeling under a spell,
Your gun-ports black with modern paint
(Where once they spat the flames and smoke of hell)
In place of England’s Patron Saint (Red cross on white) the flag of commerce flies,
Teas and scones in the state-room aft,
Where chart and compass, helped by sun and skies,
Plotted road-less roads for a salt-scarred craft. Yet even here your dignity remains,
Gulls still find a perch on mast-heads tall,
Though blood-stains now defer to coffee stains.
You lie in state, under frowning wall And stubborn, alien castle towers
Of Conwy Town (by Edward’s English built And defiant Welsh reclaimed).
Soft showers
Flood your decks with tears; tears of English guilt. | 
