Welsh Journals

IRISH RAILWAY STATION The village road is drying in the wind, And whitening, narrowing to the distant hill; The clouds are tumbling slowly from the west And lanky Michael dangles four dead hares And shuffles and curses by the gate. The steeple and the chimneys ignore the window lights, A rising wind torments the telegraph wires, And I stare through the carriage window As the grey dusk slowly dies; Half listening to the wind, half listening to the voices Of Ireland from doorstep, hedgerow, farmstead, village store, And I see blocks of turf against a stormy sky, And dark-shawled women in threes and fours, And an old man shaking his fist at the moon, And Oliver Goldsmith swaggering in green, Scattering fairies with a walking-stick, And somewhere in the darkness Robert Emmet hoists a torch, And the graves of Glasnevin are white in the sun, And Cuchulain is shouting from a cairn. But jolt, jolt, jolt, and engine whistle, and again we rattle on To the starlit harbour of Rosslare. IDRIS DAVIES. NEAR RHYMNEY Roaming the derelict valley at dusk, Breathing the air of desolation, Watching the thin moon rising behind the mountain church, I seek in the faces of men glimpses of primal joy, Of countenances that met in the sun; I seek in the sounds of human speech The echoes of forgotten rapture. Alas, the wind from the moor squeaks through deserted machinery, And pulls at the edges of tawdry advertisements, Shakes patch-up shirts and drawers on backyard lines, Shakes the last brown leaves on the hawthorn hedge; And human eyes are fixed on our expert tipster." Idris DAVIES.