Bryn Teg (Fair Hill)


Upon a stained window,

In yellow

The girls are dancing

For spring,

For love,

For sherbert

Lustrous in spins.

Above and beyond,

A homespun wisp

That casts a clue to azure.

Over thick soot chimney,


White clouds daubed

In blue;

Ever moving,

Ever true.

Leaves gathered

By the emerald winds,

Dirty rags of hopeless yarns

Cleanse this mottled soul.


With hope

And empty-hearted brush strokes.

On slopes

Much heeded,

The fields they pass my eyes,


In the shifting light.

Swaying wheat heads catch the tune,

Sweet sounds

Of golden reed flute,

And joy fills

The roots of our warm earth,

And the hills are steady drumming

And patterned with

Old harmonies.

Cool ponds hold

Pictures so clear,

Frosted water colours

Stained by tears,

Of the born and birth;

Living alone

To dance by fires,

Kicking dust to the forlorn,

And high;

Too high,

For the brightest of stars

And the deepest of night skies.


Leaping shadows,

A broadside,

A crook,

A stone juts

Stood out

On the land,

There are circles

on the crosses here.

Beneath the wings of a coal-black raven,

To a finely etched scene

Made of fleeting memories,

Of crows climbing in pairs

Suspended in mind shapes

Defined by the light

And the bloodshed,

There edges they glow

Above stone-walled station.

In flight;

Buzzards circle this splendour,

Perfect circles carved in empty skies,

Only they may soar

Ascending to make ladders

Where no ladders reached before.

Up to the springs of sacrifice,

On the borderline,

Closer to the sun.

Their hunted eyes mark

A greener gaze

Hung on warm vapour,

Full and ever watchful

Free to paint their minds.

In the hedges

Small rabbits, tiny birds,

Are speaking,

Behind a forest of honey gorse,

And only beating wings

And ticking of young hearts

Can pollute this time

On fair hill.


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