The True Player

I Reminice

Found it wedged in the attic slats —
old ring-bound, thick with coal-dust,
labelled in my scrawl: “The Codex of Mostly True Things.”
Inside: bus tickets, pressed ferns, dragon sketches,
and her laughter scribbled in margins.
This ain’t scripture. But it sings.

Page one: “Salt of the shopfront — Saint Llinos, smiling.”
She gave me lemon sherbets when I couldn’t name grief.
Page two: Tima in wellies, dragging Mum’s old brolly,
her boots black with Ebbw’s teeth.
We watched mercury shimmer on the tracks at dawn,
said it was the river trying to walk away.
Auntie said: “Don’t chase what don’t want catchin’,”
but we tried anyway.

Twyn y Certhi — mound of singing stones,
where Dad carved her name and I carved a dragon's bone.
Bren said: “The hills remember... even when we can’t,”
so I left her daisy chain in a hedge like a chant.
And the red king rose each autumn, flaring in flame,
while white queen slept under frost, uncalled by name.
By the canal, we spoke spells without knowing —
plucking green lions from the cracks where moss was growing.

This codex isn’t written, it’s worn.
In boots, in bruises, in breath that's torn.
Every line is a place we passed,
every page is a love that didn’t last.
We don’t chase gold — we carry it home
as dragon’s blood dried on the stone.

Page thirteen — unlucky for lies:
Tima asking, “If we’re stories, who writes us?”
I said, “Maybe Mum does, from somewhere.”
She said, “Well dad - we're still here”
Eira lent her a book on mythic beasts,
she named her fears and slept that week.
We built the philosopher’s garden from sticks and bins,
and she whispered: “This is how new worlds begin.”

[Verse 4 – Male British accent]
Steph brought us tea in a mug with cracks,
said it holds better warmth when it’s been through the wrack.
We camped one night beneath the devil’s apron,
wrote poetry to rocks like they were patrons.
Caduceus rivers crossed at dusk — Sirhowy kissing Ebbw’s wrist.
Guto swore he saw an angel or maybe steam,
but we just called it a memory in-between.

A page, a name, a place, a thread —
not every truth needs to be said.
Some knowledge lives in scent and sound,
in what we build, not what we found.

This codex isn’t written, it’s worn.
In boots, in bruises, in breath that’s torn.
Every line is a place we passed,
every page is a love that didn’t last.
We don’t chase gold — we carry it home
as dragon’s blood dried on the stone.

From leaf of fern and thorn of light,
Let verdant lion guard the night.
When red king burns and white queen weeps,
Mix salt with stars where the green root sleeps.
Where rivers cross and names are kept,
There lies the stone the dreamers left.
And those who hum beneath the rain
Shall bring the spring — again, again.

I left one page blank —
for her next laugh.
Or a scribble in jam.
Or for when someone, someday,
opens this back up and says,
“Ah... so this is how they remembered.”

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