Welsh Journals

THE VAN POOL: TICHRIG THE day, comforting, warm on the ridge, hurried By me, lying on grass, with a dog licking my face, Bathed in a basin by the climbing sun; all clear No fade, where the shallow river ran dry Leaving fish trapped in pools near lace curtained farms — Qoy angler's Lovely Day,— a labourer on step ladder echoed Bindly over October cooking apples, all equals in plumpness. Opposite, on a bloodless bank, Llansadwrn slept unattacked As all pretty hamlets should; on our home side, Garn Goch broad backed, a single Roman wall, built up To meet one last leafy hedge at boundary gate Named by these red ferns' rusty stare and everyday coloured Except for the patches scythed out for bedding. Each wing tilt meadow, a little absurd for certain Bad lads, roughly seven, now lined up at village square. Inimitable geese growing in clumps on the common All knowing the black iron bridge is wire netted Like tall small holders sheep that never troubled leet courts Whose grazing rights uncoil, whose homagers burn the upper hillside region gorse. 0 mewing gull flapping idly above roof slates and cottages Showing pink through the trees showing white As on this mountain turf I lie. Noiseless, Towy, winds grandly through the land, no flood below, No tuneful nightingale charms the forest with her tale Ah the Mabinogion tales of Wales I (When will the landskip tire the view?) seven humpy crows across a plain Suddenly peopled with bob-whales of hambone brightness. Stroke a collie's fine-fleshed leg for the'glimpse would repay an insurance man.