THE HEATHER NOW
The heather now clouds the hills:
in sunlight, a drift of heaven,
In low, slow rains it is
the colour of sunset storm clouds.
When does solitude turn to loneliness?
.
Fifteen years the eagle flew here.
From Tregaron to Llanwrtyd her hidden throne.
Seeing more than most,
the season’s swift tides blanching the bracken,
green then gold, copper then rust.
.
More than meets the eye,
these growing voids, these lost things, named,
forgotten, decayed, consumed.
A worm eye’s view is the beginning and end
of each transformative engine.
.
New names and a new breath.
A scattering of syllables,
a cry long and fading,
high in the cloudless sky.
A land of stoic disappointment
lies below.
.
The yews of Abergwesyn,
the yew of Llanfechan,
the chapel yew at Cefn Gorwydd
all holding on, deserted.
Folding history into themselves
and holding on.
.
The eldest springs here
are all purging and bitter.
They will keep the long death away
but they too are long forgotten.
.
The hay is in despite the rains,
and the sheep down from the hill.
Good governance is as far away as ever.
.
The eagle free in its vast prison.
Solitude and vision
and the slow rains
washing it all clean away.
.
—
For the last fifteen years a golden eagle has lived in our area, escaped from captivity somewhere, it has lived alone for sll this time. Just recently found dead -probably of old age.
simonhlilly 