Sweyne’s How ~ the tomb of the man who gave Swansea its name

There are many hidden treasures and lost history, dotted amid bracken and heather and in valleys where no one but wild ponies venture. I found this one, supposedly the tomb of the ancient founder of the city of Swansea, lichened and mellow in Welsh sunshine, with the aid of an OS map and a husband with an unerring sense of direction. I rode past it on horseback a few days later and tipped my hat to that long gone warrior, and smiled at the ephemeral nature of fame. Apart from his name, almost nothing is known of Sweyne, and his tomb, once a fine mound, is nothing but a pile of boulders at the end of the Gower peninsula.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Barrows

Barrows

The dead lie quiet and watchful here, I think,
Beneath the waving wildflowers
And tall grasses bleached blonde
By intermittent summer sun.
A lady lies here, or a kind man maybe;
War-like in weapons only
But quiet in heart and mind.
The other dead, dust alone remaining,
Resent the relentless tread
Of dull and careless feet
That wear the crown of the barrow bald
And lay bare the chalky soil
In an uncertain stony path.
The great stones, a glance away,
Command the attention of the dull throng
Caught up in automatic wonder
Walking the stony circus round and round
While here, unheeded, the real ancestors lie.