RED HILL
that open hill crowned with light.
this dark valley lost in winter.
patient oak and purple birch,
and the fast, grey river.
folded and hidden is the road to Troed Rhiw,
between the cliffs of day and the cliffs of night.
a cold wind and a cast of rain on the red hill.
at the rivers’ meeting are round silent pools,
the small sands, the worn, smoothed chambers, in the lee of the flood.
a roar, white as cloud, stretches the skin of green rock,
squeezed between the knees of Craig Clungwyn and Rhuddallt.
a mouth of water it is, a long name, a summons,
a history of welcomings and fare thee wells.
the withered sedge counts the hours and different ways,
dreams on the cliff’s edge of new green days.
and this I wanders between the thin weathers
watching the light stray as slow as sheep,
marking the orange and the gold on this fine day,
and a grace of blue sky hung for a moment
slung between Craig Du and the steeps of Pen Rhiwbie.
—
simonhlilly 