Welsh Winter: Maenllwyd

John Crook, 1993-1996
                         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.