Storm at Porthclais

Storm At Porthclais FBO

Goff James, Storm at Porthclais, 2017

Storm at Porthclais


Porthclais’ aching

Windswept battered cliffs

Where howling whining winds

Sweep unchecked across the salted slopes

And in the clouded darkness

Broken bracken fearless grips the naked rock

Where timid rabbits hide

In burrows deep beneath the pounded earth

And wind tossed screeching seabirds

Safety seek in their cliff top castled lairs 

The flow of bending ribboned grasses

Patterned by the roaring raging storm

Twine their way unknowing in rivers

Across the edge of land

And plummet to the sea

Such savage ocean mountain waves

That breathless rise snow-maned

From Neptune’s hidden caverns and

Crash and fall relentless

Against the ramparts of the harbour wall

Smothering it in strident stinging spume


Tormented boats

Anchored to their flailing mooring ropes

Swing and sway from side to side

Trying to escape the clutches of the storm

With bows out-turned across the bay

To face the raging waves

Like strings of fragile pearls

They ride the onslaught of the boiling sea

That unceasing flows and floods

The shattered shelter of the cove

Where lie strewn

The broken corpses of sunken craft

And in the thunderous darkening light

The survivors precariously cling and

Wait the onslaught to abate

With the hope of calm upon the turning of the tide

And the awakening of the


Porthclais Storma


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In Memoriam

In Memoriam FB0

G.James, In Memoriam, 2017

In Memoriam

Freedom’s hist’ry writ

’Pon Passchendaele’s shell scarred plain.   

War’s darkest horrors lit.

Five hundred thousand slain.  

Amidst the battles shrieking maelstrom    

Drowned in blood stained mud the fusiliers fell.    

Death’s scorched breath innocence consumed     

That summer’s morn in hell.

‘Neath terror’s limbless charcoaled trees

Heard the injured’s dying bays. 

’Twixt the burning stench and acrid breeze

Soldiers’ war torn twisted corpses lay. 

On Snowdon’s shadowed pastured slopes,      

Morn veiled, rising ’hoppers chirred.

Echoing, black draped silence, bedecked in hope.    

A skylark’s piped lament was heard.      

A mother’s tears Yr Ysgwrn filled

Cascading through Trawsfynydd deep.    

A father’s heart broken, stilled.

Tormented grief pained steep. 

At Birkenhead Hedd Wyn rose. The Hero’s pennant flown.

Battle field, recalled, where blood was mixed with rain.

Vacant stood the victor’s bardic throne.

The gentle poet-shepherd slain.