Welsh Journals

PROGRESS in the peaceable blue of a sky in summer cloudy mists and promise of high dominion to dream with back-thinking speed foretaste of domed content. Colour focuses, brings all to a point, to a real hereafter.. Not for us the struggle is to the still-beyond-the-clouds. Viewed from above field-ordered affairs neat hedged without the thorns and geometrical trees that mock not and point not to a blank sky. No perchance dreaming. It stands with feet on earth for climbing Four Bombers with intermittent drone crash through the hope-screen pulse-menacing boom of human engines red-bedaubed blue, crimson red with vesicles and gas-bleared eyes sky raining mortal earth each cloud an eye that accuses and mocks white-faced wonder and dismay speckles STANDING in the open way of the one land where his blood rises in sap of the trees, his ears hustle in birds' heads hearing the solid worm cry. Leaving the done farm for shock of works, scream-hooter, hell-in-a-cycle climbs back to the day he heaved white love love in a ditch below harvest. POEM George EWART EVANS. SOLID CRY