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

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.

We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.

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

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

Who put that crease in your soul,
Davies, ready this fine morning
For the staid chapel, where the B
Sobers the sunlight? Who taught y
And scheme at once, your eyes turn

The furies are at home
in the mirror; it is their address
Even the clearest water,
if deep enough can drown.
Never think to surprise them.

They see you as they see you,
A poor farmer with no name,
Ploughing cloudward, sowing the wi
With squalls of gulls at the day’s
To me you are Prytherch, the man

I look out over the timeless sea
over the head of one, calendar
to time’s passing, who is now open
at the last month, her hair wintry
Am I catalyst of her mettle that,

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