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

Too far for you to see
The fluke and the foot-rot and the
Gnawing the skin from the small bo
The sheep are grazing at Bwlch-y-
Arranged romantically in the usual

For the first twenty years you are
Bodily that is: as a poet, of cour
You are not born yet. It’s the ne
You cut your teeth on to emerge sm
For your brash courtship of the mu

“Listen, now, verse should be as n
As the small tuber that feeds on m
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal be
“Natural, hell! What was it Chauc

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.

All my life
I was face to face
with her, at meal—times,
by the fire, even
in the ultimate intimacies

Iago Prytherch his name, though,
Just an ordinary man of the bald
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of c
Docking mangels, chipping the gree
From the yellow bones with a half-

It seems wrong that out of this bi
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should
Such rich music, as though the not
Ore were changed to a rare metal

And this was a civilization
That came to nothing—he spurned wi
The slave—coloured dust. We breat
Thankfully, oxygen to our culture.
Somebody found a curved bone

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