“It’s my town now, warts and all.”

Haverfordwest is a long name for a town,

It’s as though you’d need directions

To find the place without a frown

Of despair. It has aged connections

With Eleanor of Castile, Edward’s wife

Who liked the place and bought the castle.

There was some dispute, some strife

But the King’s the King – so no big hassle.

Her holiday home, opulent and grand,

O’erlooked a priory, all Dominican,

That skirted the river and its sandy strand.

Black they wore, but now it’s an inn again

On Castle Square abutting Victoria Place,

Built in 1839, for estate agents and banks.

By Owen’s Bridge – it made a packet- gave him grace

To rise above the humble throng and join the ranks

Of noble gentry fine and dandy. The old quay

Stands neglected today, no Bristol trade

Comes its way, no French wines tariff-free

Arrive. It’s long gone away, weighed

No more on the iron scales of duty.

The river’s a trickle in these dry days

Only the incoming tide could allow any booty

To come ashore on concrete cracked and crazed

Before the modern council building ersatz

Bastion of the county. It stands so stark,

Slate-grey conical roofs sit like witches’ hats

On towers of primrose yellow beside a park.

It’s my town now, warts and all.

The brass belfry-bell of St Mary’s says with zest –

For Cromwell never shattered that hall –

‘I do my best for Haverfordwest.’