This place here is cynefin,
a former farmhouse named Tŷ Newydd.
Its meticulously mowed lawn
bordered by bushes and tree.
In it: a magical natural window,
through which, standing on toes,
a view of the sea.
Behind the metal gate, a path:
wet grass, a breeze,
and once at beach,
the castle on the left:
Criccieth
Cynefin is a library
furnished with soft, cream-coloured
chairs and settees
that offer security
– and ease.
A room composed of stories
and of life and death
– for it softly caught a dying owner’s last breath.
It now seats fourteen women
brought together seemingly serendipitous.
Individuals becoming ‘us’.
A gathering of sharing:
curiosity and grief
fear and relief
fictions, facts, and future fantasies
current sentiments and raw realities.
In here is where we ponder hiraeth and feel hwyl
where our voices echo on a certain spot
where some talk and others not
It’s where Margaret Jean tells Cymru tales
and a Donegal gal produces poetry in a jiffy,
whilst others freeze or feel slightly iffy
Cynefin is this place near Llanystumdwy
where you arrive at your worst
and leave at your best
where home and homesickness collide
where hiraeth comes in waves and tides
where if you depart
you do not leave.
