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CWM DWFNANT (2)
(Our geography)
It does not dwell here
It does not stay.
Coming and going in mists
Dissolved to spirit
Absently haunting
The green valley quiet.
Its wings are white shadows
Milk dropped in pools
A cleft, a demure device,
Dark and luscious mystery
Hovered near madness
Far too far from reasonable reasons.
It dwells otherwise, a dark language
Spoken backwards.
Returning time to itself,
A rotating quern of years and miles.
A mighty sign at the corner of the eye.
Blessings to the world-weary
That strip the meat back to bone,
Break the bone to feed on sweet hidden marrow.
The lick of mist, the lick of its still wrist,
Far-flung, a throat of words
Pushed back deep into the hills.
simonhlilly 
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