Welsh Journals

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The Two Meetings THE godly throng grey valley chapels while we celebrate indulgence on the hill. They cleave to God's anointed, ours the fresh infallible anointment of the flesh. Unchecked their voices, confident their tread; we sweetly fear the tumult in our blood. They praise in song the mystic Calvary; your breasts are to your lover mystery. But one sad truth will bind us to them ever even though our rapture outdoes theirs twice over, lovers and chapel-goers all confess that separation dulls their sprightliness. NEFYDD OWEN. Translated by GWYN WILLIAMS. My Elder Tree at Night (for B.M.). COOL fingers on the deep night of flesh my elder flowers softly under the moon nearer in space it cuts me into time segmented back in Cardiganshire gardens. floods in another afternoon moments kneedeep in streams where freckled lights midway in darkness catch me back to these dim pools that breathe through this green night. The hand of chance is feather soft and sudden it lulls and stings and flings like paper countries and days and it returns, and sometimes o regret, the traveller. Alexandria. GWYN WILLIAMS.