The Wye Valley
tempests hurled at night,
as stars collide, with satellites.
We follow words, broken thoughts,
pages half-spun, where cross-currents of
discourse float, and barometric register
indicates careful defence.
Walk through jerky visual fields,
mountain breeze cools, truth is near,
homespun philosophy of heartache and tear.
Where some of us wander, we wander still,
belonging to no one, effective enough to be invisible.
Time overtakes us, elapses into a moment as orison unfolds.
Balancing acts,hands stretched out, edged on by memory.
Conjurers in quick succession, weave their magic.
To Abergavenny,in search of currents, threads,
a poets footprints, led us here.
Ghosts of elecricity, whisper in the air drifting
as echoe reverberates, and nothing lies naked,
humanity in a deep depression, comes in from the west.
Abstract motion awaits,dancing drunkenly in the foreground.
Passionate nature ,remains secure,lists are meaningless.
Ferocious walking, relearning iaith,
we translate everything into ourselves,
there are traditions, that carry the truth of seasons
at the end of the day our tongues slip,
secrets shared beyond the borders.