simonhlilly

The long song

1
Pwll Bo, where the waters swirl the colour of trout,
As brown as deep sunlight and the taste of peat.
Shadowed is the heathered hue ( whose voice
White as lightning sings to the oldest of things,
Though few may know it except the ghosts
Of wanderers lost and found by starlight,
And the fastness of owl-bright silence
And the stillness of hills in their watchfulness.)

Pwll Bo and then the Washpool and then on,
Down to the church and then the town.
Everything murmurs in its own language.
The river’s accent rushes from wild to soothing
To wild again.

Clouded, the eye of this precinct night
Lost in dream that seems to be remembrance, but is not.
A doppler drift of slow, utterly endless forgetting.

2
Singing the long song
Pwll Bo roars white and whispers.
Water turning hills to soil.

3
Pwll Bo
Spirit song
Mountains to soil
Sunlight to trees
Water to life.

Weaving sound
A throat of rock.
White, roaring water.

Hollowed rock
A mouth of song.
Thunder whispers.
Sunlight and shade.
A rivered voice.

—