Y Foel, winged before the throne,
Raven-tipped, discreetly still.
The light behind her, barefoot, at the door.
No voice. A sighing distant cloud.
Peat dark pools hide skulls that speak
In tongues long gone, this curlew keening.
Our cynefin, our maes agored,
Our ffynnonau, as it were.
And there, Y Foel, seated calm,
Measuring the tides, turning still
From the neon worm, from the fiery fevered
Dreaming empty minds, rabid with wishful futures
That shall not hold.
And the moon there swinging through all her seasons,
Belly full with heroes, bright browed, long-armed, strong-thighed.
Awaiting their turn to return, to shine as blossoms do,
Petals falling in a western breeze.
Just out of sight: eternal sea’s lullaby, over dune and hedge,
Down deep lanes, around corners, the sudden dip to sandy lip.
A taste of salt, a changing glorious thinning light.
And the blue hills over there, always cool,
Measuring the Fall, the weight of Sin, the road to redemption,
The longing dusty road of skin, sun-washed, footsore,
Limping from meagre shade to shade, seeking forgiveness.
Myrddin weighed down and lost in exiled dream.
Name and purpose abraded, worn smooth in seasons’ river.
This last day of summer,
This last day of spring, this last day of autumn,
This long night, the iron edged anvil winter.
Little cat, we grow old here together,
By what fires we kindle.
And whatever the season,
The flowers of bombs
Forever blossoming.
–
