Welsh Winter: Maenllwyd

                          Grey stone mountain
                          rain
                          and the gathering fogs
                          Drip drip the gutters
                          and the gurgling stream.
                          Two ravens out of the mirk
                          strut about warily
                          not seeing the face behind the window,
                          deftly grabbing a wad of rice
                          fly off into cloud.
                          Dark light at noon
                          no sign of sun,
                          full moon falteringly filtering
                          through the dismal night.
                          Warm and muggy
                          Welsh winter
                          washing itself away.
 
 Not very good weather we're having!
 
                                         No o.
 
 Better 'an snow tho.
                                         Not so sure
                                         Cold's a better time
                                         ice and hoar frost
                                         bright days.
 
 S'long as you're not driving isn't it?
 
                                         Aai.
 
 Can't expect much else, mind you
 the time of the year.
 I always say!
 
                                         Sheep OK?
 
 Damp's no good for the feet like
 but woolly coats does 'em fine.
 Look cheerful enough don't ey?
 Up on your tod then - nobody with you?
 Meditation is it?
 Ah - wri-ting too then. Well
 quiet enough up here 
 for sure.
 Time to get on with it-
 up the hill for a look round.
 Missus'l be waiting for her tea.
 Til next time then - is it.
 
 Grey day
 day barely day
 cold wind slicing the grasses
 puddles iced, walking with caution
 ears and fingers freeze.
 I puff on my hands.
 
                                    Cold mist
                                    clings to the hill side trees,
                                    no sky at all, dull light
                                    draining colour from the land.
                                    Deep in their roots
                                    sycamores sleep
                                    bare twigs clutching at the wind.
 
 Hull down in hollows
 sheep are motionless,
 backs to breeze
 shrammed heifers stand like statues,
 where no sun rises
 hoar frost lies on the land.
 
                                    Down a hedgerow
                                    evening Blackbird squawks
                                    despondency,
                                    Crows pass lolling on the wind
                                    watchful, waiting.
 
 A time for ghosts
 howling down the whitened hills
 maddened in the grey freeze.
 Deep in my hearth now
 frosty fire tongues leap
 at the coming night.
 

John Crook, 1993 - 1996