Penybont

In the quiet vale where Penybont sleeps,
A bridge of stone arches over murmuring streams,
Its name—head of the bridge—whispers old tales,
Of shepherds’ footsteps and ancient dreams.

The hills roll soft, a patchwork of green,
Sheep dot the slopes like white‑washed thoughts,
While wild thyme scents the evening air,
And dusk drapes a shawl of lavender mist.

Cottages huddle, roofs of slate,
Smoke curling from hearths in ruby glow,
Children’s laughter echoes down the lane,
As swallows dart in violet‑tinged flow.

Here time moves with the river’s gentle pace,
Carrying stories of stone and song,
Penybont—humble, steadfast, true—
A heart of Wales where hearts belong.