simonhlilly

Llangammarch lies golden,
Autumn tumbled.

Moss grown green
On slated roof.
Slate skies
Silent with holding light.

Patted butter,
The maple leaves.
Bronzed, the curled oak,
Birch, a spattered copper.
The lank drip, the bloodied cherry.

Through its towers,
The river runs,
Light and cold.

A long distance opens up
Through wood and hedgerow.
We are laid, once more,
Naked and glorious
To the hills.

An easy folding land,
Smoke-blue
And tinged with
Sweet and bitter.

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