simonhlilly

ST. DAVID’S DAY

This storm is born
In the crowns of the big trees.
See them, down in the valley fold,
Sway and surge in sea-echoed ecstasy.
The roar of threaded airs
Woven and slung out,
Spat with hail and sudden squall.
Dark their limbs,
And dark the thick air.
But bright the song of the chaffinch.
Bright the morning
And the baby’s cries on the cliff.
The sun shall lift the hills
And praise will rise.
Tonight, the owl’s amen shall resound
As round and cold
As the clear moon.

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