This river
Roaring pink
At sunset.
Drawing down
The woven laced waters,
Undressed the hills
Of their fast brightness.
The road rises,
Rises and rises again,
Shines towards a westing sun,
Winged, borne up.
At his black pulpit hedge
The upright larch,
Ragged golden zealot gesticulate.
He points the path
To John Penry’s home,
Who stirred the cauldron,
Pricked the fat yawning clergy,
Called for God’s word in Welsh
To gather the scattered, downstruck flock.
The old road rises west,
Towards heaven,
A herd of rainbows
Fed on distance,
Fed on sloped green,
And sapped colours
Of an evening fading fast.
It will never end,
Nor will it ever remain the same.
We shall all be woven in,
Embraced, where light
And rain dress pastures,
Where sheep, patient as saints,
Drift into starlight.
This ribboned road,
This river flood,
These veined
And holy oaks.
A consequence of notions.
—
simonhlilly 