Forests of Cwmystwyth

To make spiders and green lace
photons are parcelled as picoseconds of light
to tell the leaves when to breathe
cytochrome splits stasis to sweet mouthfuls of mist
and trees that cannot grow old


giving air to the spaces between


                                                                               just as pines unfold against a slate grey sky


                                                             At first, crossing borders, the landscape occurs quite tamely…


reminders of time come as daggers and trefoils   lock out light    congeal into slate,


The track stops.
They must have run out of breath,
the ones who came here
built this house where soil meets dusk


                                                            a moment’s grace

and the rope of a woman’s hair swings through ghosting light

     as she turns, with a half smile to see dancing rags on drying lines

                                                            hear the plash of cloth on stone
smell the tan of autumn in the morning air

down the hillside quicksilver sheep pour




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