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| storm brewing in Snowdonia, N. Wales -- Mynydd Mawr is nearby |
There is rain tonight in the valley,
rivers running off course
and even the wind has missed its directions,
leaves stuck in my hair,
eyelashes kept open to the gale,
forced breath, light dip but no depth
beneath the panting weight of
slanting
cloud come down around the very feet of
Mynydd Mawr, the Great Mountain,
roads washed out into fields,
barring the way instead of leading home,
while black cattle hang their calls
on a hawthorn--little shelter in its spines,
while my refuge is the gorse, golden but
hardly more protection than the forlorn thorn in the field.
Bare foot, shivering, soaked to my very spirit,
there is no turning back for even the wild things,
no relief until the relentlessness slackens with its own
weariness, wondering that perhaps it has had enough
of itself, just as a child cries out its woe
until there are no more tears to be had.
Until then, I will wait,
struck by the adamant intent of a landscape to survive,
even in the face of a storm which knows no difference
between fence and field, woodland or mountain heath,
only its own release into the world
like my words now dropping on all alike,
tawny owl taking what belongs to it,
each poem agile in stealth, waiting for you
in the dark night of dissolution
to steal you beyond death into
clouds parting, sun gleaming,
and the whole world glistening anew
on fire from
seeing itself once more.
