In years gone by, before the coming of the iron men, dragons walked this land.
I met an old woman in the woods who told me of the final battle between the black and the red dragons.
The black was huge, his scales iridescent as abalone shell, his amber eyes piercing, his teeth like needles of alabaster. Cunning he was, yet fierce as freedom and slippery as oil in water.
The red was smaller, sleeker, with wings the span of three-acre-field, a crest of fine pointed scales flowing down her back like a promise of immortality. Subtle she was, clever as a classroom of professors. Wise as time. Patient as the ocean floor.
As the old crone spoke, I saw them both—the black prowling the peaks of Mynyddoedd Cambria, the red flying over the valleys.
I heard their song and I felt their fire as they battled the length of afon Teifi—from the spring above Tregaron to the estuary at Aberteifi.
I saw them flame each other, crisping beech, rowan and hazel, steaming the riverbed and fusing stones, transforming green fields into burnt brown desert.
I saw them mate in the caves of Emlyn.
Watched as the red birthed a single, shining egg.
Crept up and hid it under a hawthorn tree, beside the bend in the river.
Watched as they soared into the sky at dusk—disappeared into the purple shadows of the land beyond the sea.
I sat beside that egg one thousand years, kept the fire alight, sang the sacred songs.
Until one day she hatched.
And made our land her home.
Great story to read on the summer solstice ❤️🙏
Sensational!