Wales ‑ to where
I now return each year.
A yearning, a persistent desire
That never fails
To call me back.
Land of my grandmother and her kin.
Land too, of proud mountains,
Valleys, rivers, pervasive castles…
And bleak forests…
Wherein prowl the
Ghosts of wolves, bears
And Princes
Long since slain.
Only the cry of an owl
Soon to kill;
Red kites that
Make even that consummate skill
A graceful art,
And the rarely absent
Wind and rain
Rise above
The music of cold, crystal waters…
These drawn from icy, ancient peaks
To tumble across shales
And shattered slate
Or granite
Where flecks of the purest gold,
Beloved by those that behold
But do not care,
Glisten like stars
Lost in the enormity
Of untidy Space…
And yet, beyond these
Urgent happy thoughts
Of Wales,
And the open window,
Speaks all that is left…
The real stars,
A thousand billion of them,
Alight still as the myths and legends
Of that mystic, magic place.