Artist
In 1940, the Ministry of Defence requisitioned 12,000 hectares known as the Epynt. Over 200 adults and children were turned out of their homes, school, public house and chapels with just four months notice. Compensation was paid to the landowners (such as Lord Glanusk, Viscount Tredegar, Duke of Beaufort) — not the tenant farmers or the labourers who lived there and worked the land.
The red flag is flown when it is forbidden to enter, as live firing is being undertaken. In my experience, however, the flag is never lowered.
Not the flag of a community,
that was forced to leave their farms.
This is not the flag of a nation,
nor an heraldic coat of arms.​
This is not the red of the passion,
that enflamed the preacher’s brow;
Nor the red of the primary school -
For they’re both a memory now.
This is not a cloth of comfort,
that warmed the children’s beds,
nor the fabric of society,
because that was torn to shreds.
​
This is not a symbol of welcome;
that shone from the old inn’s hearth.
That was not the snap of laughter,
nor a wave from a neighbour’s path.​
​
This is instead a warning -
“This land is now not yours.”
“Keep out. Be gone!” Uprooted.
The native song is paused.
​
Where once men toiled on their land
there now, they just sow war.
This flag flies inviting death,
the cape of the matador.