#WelshWriters
Men who have hardly uncurled from their posture in the womb. Naked. Heads bowed, not in prayer, but in contemplation of the earth they came from,
Beasts rearing from green slime— an illiterate country, unable to r… its own name. Stones moved into po… on the hills’ sides; snakes laid t… in their cold shadow. The earth su…
Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day’s co… Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all op…
I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while, and gone my way and forgotten it. But that was the… of great price, the one field that…
There are nights that are so still that I can hear the small owl call… far off and a fox barking miles away. It is then that I lie in the lean hours awake listening
In Wales there are jewels To gather, but with the eye Only. A hill lights up Suddenly; a field trembles With colour and goes out
Being unwise enough to have marrie… I never knew when she was not acti… ‘I love you’ she would say; I hea… Sigh. ‘I hate you’; I could never… They were still there. She was lo…
We’ve nothing vast to offer you, n… Except the waste of thought Forming from mind erosion; No canyons where the pterodactyl’s… Falls like a shadow.
England, what have you done to mak… My fathers used a stranger to my l… An offence to the ear, a shackle o… That would fit new thoughts to an… Answer me now. The workshop where…
Moments of great calm, Kneeling before an altar Of wood in a stone church In summer, waiting for the God To speak; the air a staircase
It will not always be like this, The air windless, a few last Leaves adding their decoration To the trees’ shoulders, braiding… Of the boughs with gold; a bird pr…
I am the farmer, stripped of love And thought and grace by the land’… But what I am saying over the fie… Desolate acres, rough with dew, Is, Listen, listen, I am a man li…
My garden is the wild Sea of the grass. Her garden Shelters between walls. The tide could break in; I should be sorry for this.
With her fingers she turns paint into flowers, with her body flowers into a remembrance of herself. She is at work always, mending the garment
It is a matter of a black cat On a bare cliff top in March Whose eyes anticipate The gorse petals; The formal equation of
