FUJI (wisteria)

By the cottages of Penrhos,

Letting the warm wall take its weight.

Resting on the earth like a mountain does.

Leaning gnarled, an old man supports himself.

When time comes, his tongue flowers

Eloquent strings of song,

After the frosts have gone

And before the long rains.

Aberystwyth rain


A long sweep of grey bay.

Above the town, an angel,

come for the living

or come for the dead.

It hovers matter of fact

above the dusty warehouses.

The castle keep grins

all broken teeth,

a bleak oppression,

our proud scars displayed.

Placid the waters today

and the tides all low.

The edge of one world,

the edge of another.

Hesitant, the angel hangs,

awaiting signs on the horizon

that something is worth moving for,

that something has not been abandoned,

something vital not forgotten.

The Hedges


The hedges hawthorn foam.

Precise time ceased and waiting.

A mist to smudge everything not near.

And a blue cool watchfulness

Before slow, large drops of rain.

Hills, and hills behind the hills, we see.

Hills and hills in the heart of the land.

Inch by inch they choose green

Over wan winter brown.

Inch by inch they swell and sing

Sated with descending arcs of summer stars


Rain over the hills, light in the valley.

Old Men


remaining silent:
no one knows
whether we are becoming wise,
or more foolish.
watching the endless river.


DHRUPAD 23 (green)

Look now green green now.

Even green in the hills, the high cold hills

with their hearts of stone, sniff the green the tips of bracken there

amongst the old debris pink and brown,

so many cold nights

and winds and slow days of so slow heavy rain.

By the thin rivers and

the fast streams the sedges green and growing

that were hog bristle brown, dead and belligerent and wan wan wan.

And even

the clouds even the clouds

so low and slow and fast, tinged now with

a certain green a certain glow a reflected green, a green smile the world


once frosts are gone and the larger days and the cowslips

foaming over the roadsides in drooping cream bee buzzing delight


The pink grey empty slopes over Aberedw peppered

all peppered with hawthorn white and creamly perching there,

a crown for each moment each outcrop tonguing scented air

pert as hounds bright eyed and keen for sunlight warm and honey


A green green breakfast it is now

for the hungry hills,

the hungry hills.


In rows the villagers sit, all sombre colours,

Come together, knitted for the departed.

Eyes drift to the vast view of grey sky

Not so far from the sea, above the trees and birdsong.

Endless rain feeding the green world below,

Joy feeding sorrows, sorrow feeding joy.


Along the weary road, we know, the wide land unfurls,

But the low clouds have returned and there is nothing

Except what is nearby and what is small and unremarkable.

Long miles along the river valley, down the woods and cowslip banks.

Beside us the endless river shines, then slips again from view.


Mountain breathes out.
I breathe in.

Still air.
Sky turning slowly blue.

A wood pigeon sings its call to prayer.
An offering of hawthorn blossom sprinkles the valley.

There is nothing that cannot be healed.
Nothing that cannot be lost and found.

%d bloggers like this: