The iron gate by the river and to the low bridge
On leaf-paste and splinter-slate.
Into the wood to soft-tread the blunt pine pins
Above the named red river
Below the falls.
The scree smells of burning, stone-friction,
Twitching the balance,
Then twitching again.
The water is not a roar, it is a low hiss,
A tap left on in the next room
Until closer to its leap
It raises drowned voices to warn –
Where the ooze deceives
On the polished rock.
Then the high valley and to the sheepfold
On sprung moss and saxifrage.
Steep up the bare flank to burst lungs
Where the ponies graze
The clouds skim the shoulder, half-hearted steam
Hiding the crest,
Then hiding it again.
The wind is less a sound, than nature’s tune played
Through the shattered shards
Of Bera Mawr.
A castle in the air,
With sweet tea in the lee.