The hills lie still, only sheep disturb

this summer evening's equanimity,

over the farmstead yard

the dark soul'd sycamore broods

bunched branches heavily

together hang.


Wide valley, patchwork fields

roof the bedrock of this land,

few travellers, for tourists hug the towns

and roads that cut like knives,

here shady lanes meander yet,

one travels vaguely,

things do not get

so easily done.


Fading light brings deeper silence,

the grey stone soul turns inward to the cwm,

this sycamore now holds its breath

continuously - my eyes roam

yard to landscape far to near,

behind my chair

the small and unlit house

waits like an old friend.