A damp wind off the cliff-edge
is music dismantled; low, chill
on limestone.

Y Mynydd Du
in monochrome,
its valleys spreading like curtains

where back and forth on the Skirrid
a shadow goes loping forever
hugging mud to its heart

A poem is a river unbraided.
Here, in the bone-cold air
a waterfall quietly unstitches itself

in the first of the swelling light.
A sheep pauses mid-mouthful,
coat pearled with dew.

Clouds sag, full as muslin.
It is for this they push on,
veiling the hillsides,

unravelling to smoke
but still moving
like those brilliant glaciers

shunting back into winter
or the throat of the red wind opening,
shaking the church bells awake.