Penygarngoch rises from the past,
A whale of rock, green draped,
Through the hayfields and meadow mists.
Rising above the lowing cattle,
Rising above the blackcap’s song.
Higher than the raven’s tumble,
Higher than the roads and pathways.
The present does not wash it clean of memory.
It does not replace the layers accumulated,
The dust of starlight, the tombs of kings.
In its deep roots, in its trickling waters,
In its sedge and scrub and bracken,
In its clear-eyed dreaming head,
In its separate, aloof completeness,
In its drawing out of silence,
In its dome of watchfulness,
It rises higher into the sun.
Both consonant and vowel,
Both noun and verb.
A rounded arc that restfulness adheres to.
simonhlilly 