simonhlilly

See how the sharp edge
of the moon
is a whetstone to the wind.
worn down, nail thin,
by heaven’s river.

keen, I suppose,
will be the waters at Pwll Bo.
focused, brown and roaring curses,
squeezed between rocks
in the ringing, whirled pools.

there is only this:
sudden mystery rippling
waves of grass;
a dog barking
as the hills come and go.
the waves of their edge
breaking deep
to the green valley’s bed.

last day of January-
flooded with passion
for things unmade.

and the yews of Aberglasney
will be bowed down
from the weight of stars,
their dark corridors
woven deeply with tingled silence,
a worm’s turn from Spring.

—