Bangor

Bangor

On the banks where the Dee meets the tide,
Old Bangor stands with a quiet pride.
Stone‑cobbled streets and slate‑roofed rows,
Whisper tales that the river knows.

From the pier, gulls wheel in salt‑kissed air,
Their cries a hymn to the harbour’s flare.
Boats bob gently, their paint a faded blue,
While fishermen mend nets with hands worn true.

Up the hill, the cathedral’s spire pierces sky,
A gothic sentinel watching passers‑by.
Stained‑glass light falls on pews of oak,
Echoes of prayer in each quiet stroke.

Markets burst with Welsh cakes and warm tea,
The scent of laverbread drifts lazily.
Children’s laughter rings from the park’s green shade,
Where daffodils nod in the March cascade.

Evening drapes the hills in soft, amber gleam,
The Menai Strait mirrors a dreaming stream.
Stars peek through the mist, a silvery veil,
As Bangor sighs in a gentle, timeless tale.

Here land and sea, past and present entwine,
A town of heart, of rhythm, of rhyme—
Bangor, beloved, in Britain’s embrace,
Holds the world in its modest, enduring grace.