By chance I met someone who had lived in this house more than 40 years ago and she told me they used to leave the front door open to hear the congregation singing on a Sunday morning.
Here's the poem that grew from that conversation.
In the house below Glandwr chapel
they used to leave the front door ajar
on Sunday mornings to hear the voices soar into the chapel roof
and drift down the hill.
Back then, folk would trek miles over fields in their hundreds
– sheep farmers, wool workers, millers – a mass congregation
to sing praises for their work, their land a modest living.
Now, only magpies cackle Sunday mornings awake,
or the persistent throb of Keith’s mower in the graveyard disturbs slumber.
Nobody enters the old chapel, save to inspect fallen masonry
board up broken windows or secure slipped slates.
Those joyful god-fearing singers of centuries past lie still and quiet,
their pristine hush penetrates weekday mornings in the house below.
Black memorial stones shine wet and clean in early morning sun,
reflecting only silence.
