We spent the morning stripping and stacking turf
from an iron age circle on the escarpment edge,
the Director’s black retriever nosing between us.
On the sandy plain before the sea sat Ynys,
a level crossing and a right angle in the Harlech road.
At lunch, ball-less, we threw stones for fetching.
A stronger arm than mine launched a rock
high, like a mortar. It rose, hovered at the peak
of its parabola then plunged for the ground.
Our foreman, self-proclaimed ex-mercenary,
talked ranges, rockets, heavy machine guns;
planted a Congo ambush for lorries risking Ynys.
The dog, urged by joy and breeding, raced
to the meeting, mouth already missile-wide.
Ynys: ‘island’, many years ago it was one. What happened to the dog? The stanzas are three lines apiece, except the last one. So there is a missing line, which would give the answer, if I wanted to.