#WelshWriters
We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.
Moments of great calm, Kneeling before an altar Of wood in a stone church In summer, waiting for the God To speak; the air a staircase
The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address… Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them.
I have been all men known to histo… Wondering at the world and at time… I have seen evil, and the light bl… Innocent love under a spring sky. I have been Merlin wandering in t…
It is calm. It is as though we lived in a garden that had not yet arrived at the knowledge of
Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day’s co… Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all op…
And this was a civilization That came to nothing—he spurned wi… The slave—coloured dust. We breat… Thankfully, oxygen to our culture. Somebody found a curved bone
To live in Wales is to be conscio… At dusk of the spilled blood That went into the making of the w… Dyeing the immaculate rivers In all their courses.
For the first twenty years you are… Bodily that is: as a poet, of cour… You are not born yet. It’s the ne… You cut your teeth on to emerge sm… For your brash courtship of the mu…
Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream… The props crumble; the familiar wa… Are stale with tears trodden under… The heart’s flower withers at the… Bury it then, in history’s sterile…
When he came in, she was there. When she looked at him, he smiled. There were lights in time’s wave breaking on an eternal shore.
Evans? Yes, many a time I came down his bare flight Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen With its wood fire, where crickets… Accompaniment to the black kettle’…
There are nights that are so still that I can hear the small owl call… far off and a fox barking miles away. It is then that I lie in the lean hours awake listening
Coming home was to that: The white house in the cool grass Membraned with shadow, the bright… Of stream that was its looking—gla… And smoke growing above the roof
We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love’s moment