Maenllwyd

Arriving in the yard
I switch off the engine 
and gaze at the view, 
evening sun on the rolling hills
yellow fields, dark woods. 
In the sudden silence 
a buzzard mews, 
distantly guiding sheep 
dogs bark.

Entering the gate 
I come home to my hermitage, 
welcoming trees brood 
and the old door creaks on rusty hinges
falling plaster needs sweeping from the floor, 
softly on cold flags moisture gleams.

Lighting the fire 
I watch slow smoke rising, 
hang in the windless cwm. 
The smells of the hills 
roll in through opened windows, 
thankfully I breath out city air, 
inside my room
no sound.


The hills lie still, only sheep disturb 
this summer evening's equanimity, 
over the farmstead yard 
the dark soul'd sycamore broods 
bunched branches heavily 
together hang.

Wide valley, patchwork fields 
roof the bedrock of this land, 
few travellers, for tourists hug the towns 
and roads that cut like knives, 
here shady lanes meander yet, 
one travels vaguely, 
things do not get
so easily done.

Fading light brings deeper silence, 
the grey stone soul turns inward to the cwm, 
this sycamore now holds its breath 
continuously - my eyes roam
yard to landscape far to near, 
behind my chair
the small and unlit house 
waits like an old friend.


Freshly cool the silent room inhales 
the fair scent of summer night 
candles on the table flutter 
an incense mingling breeze.

Retreated from our seared souls' silences, 
those zombie spaces where in the cold snake 
kills the warm, composed heart opens 
to the pains that move yet are not changed.

If I could give you now this other stillness 
wherein the night owl cries beyond the barn 
two minds' silences would be as one 
grateful emptiness of a midnight calm.

And yet heart's silences like secrets 
are for the single one alone -
in your universe and far away you move 
here candles flutter in hay scented air