I.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
who grows in my suburban garden,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet.

I fought not in the Battle of Arfderydd.
I was not a golden-torqued warrior.

I wandered not in the Forest of Celyddon.

But I have wandered for thirty years
with madness and madmen
in the wildernesses of suburbia
not knowing what is real and what is not.

I have known my pigs and my stolen berries
and my maidens of the suburban drains,
my Chwyfleian beneath her trap.

II.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
who grows close to my garden fence,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet.

I knew not Gwenddolau and his two eagles
who feast on the flesh of the Britons every day
but I have been devoured by death-eaters.

I did not get involved with the games
of Gwenddolau and Rhydderch
on the gwyddbwyll board,
men gold and silver,

but I predicted the outcome
and did not speak up about Caerlaverock.

I ask that my Lord of Hosts have mercy on me.

III.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
near where the birds come to feed,
where the sparrows pick, the starlings peck,
where the long-tailed tits come to twirl their tails,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet

yet I was torn out of myself

not after the Battle of Arfderydd
but when I was but a child, a fledgling
by the bullies who called me a pig,
knowing not Myrddin’s sweet little one,
when I was only half-pig half-bird.

I knew not what kind of bird.

Not a hawk certainly not a merlin.

Perhaps a blackbird or the big black bird
perching on my chimney-top blotting out the sun.

IV.
Apple tree, sweet apple tree,
with your blossoms white and pink,
foxglove pink, the colours of the fair folk,
know I am no Myrddin and no prophet,

yet I was invited to walk not in Celyddon
but in Avalon with my Lord of Hosts.

Oh happy happy days beneath your boughs
with the long-tailed tits twirling,
picking at the worms

as the snake
returned to the garden
and the Dragon King spread His wings
and they were filled with the apples of the sun.

This poem is inspired by ‘The Apple Trees’ from The Black Book of Carmarthen wherein Myrddin Wyllt speaks his woes to an apple tree after the tragic Battle of Arfderydd. I believe ‘the Lord of Hosts’ referred to in this poem is Gwyn ap Nudd, who is also referred to as ‘the Lord of Hosts’ in ‘The Conversation of Gwyn ap Nudd and Gwyddno Garanhir’. Gwyn, ‘White’, has paradoxically appeared to me in the guise of a black dragon. It’s a poem about knowing in spite of my defects and limitations I am loved.