When the sea dropped
clear away,
the past happened,
the iron jaws of a hardboiled place,
winter comes easily
to the high town of the country.

Waun Helygen - Marsh of the Willows
caught at the head of the valley
the air rarefied,
a raw presence
as the snow covers
the old tracks on moutain ridges.
Moonlight and singeing frost,
remote carins on Llangatoock moors,
the wind cracks the wanderer in half.
Adrfit Ebbw Fach?
History can dry you up
with only echoes of the forge,
the ice begins to weep,
slow on a big hill.