SUGARLOAF (Cambrian Rift)
It is a sweet hill – the steep border between
The nodding bracken and the water meadows.
.
A straight road to heaven,
Last descendent of those ancient hills
That sit before the throne.
.
A knife-edge of rock slicing the wriggling roads.
.
Climb up it, and you shall see wonders
Where silence tumbles into cold wind.
.
Below, trees sway ranked in autumn colours.
They await the battle of winter.
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Here, the tattered sky catches in grasses
And thin earth throbs with distance.
.
Road and river, far below, glow golden –
The land made soft by the flow of Towy
Fades down to the warmer west,
Down to the sea beyond horizon’s hills.
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Breath and heart and hope rise here:
Who would not long for wings?
—
simonhlilly 
Who indeed.