Bryn Myrddin

Bryn Myrddin

Wales — 2 September 2026

Mary Stewart gave me a boy
misunderstood, alone,
who rode his pony up a hill and found a cave.

There, Galapas taught him
the names of birds, the shape of the world,

and something of his own strength.

Through all the years of Merlin's life,
he returned to that hill.

I was a girl when I first read it,
but I carried that hill long after I closed the book.

Years later,
when I could no longer walk,
I made myself a promise.

Through two new knees and the long work of learning to
walk again,

I kept that hill somewhere ahead of me.

And now,
Aris and I stood beneath enormous beeches.

The path rose.

And kept rising.

Along the path we found the pool.

A great bowl of stone,
dark water, fallen needles on its surface.

Someone else had loved the story enough to give it a place in the world.

I knelt and touched the water.

It was cold.

I knew it was only a story.

I touched the water anyway.

Beyond the pool,
the hill grew steeper.

Rain had made the earth slick.

In places we could climb only by pulling ourselves up ropes
tied between the trees.

And then—

sky.

The forest fell away.

Rain touched my face.

I stood there, breathless,
Wales opening beneath me.

And for a moment,

I could see

what Merlin saw.

Bryn Myrddin

Wales, United Kingdom - 2026

Poetry and digital collage by Wren Stevens
© 2026 Wren Stevens

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