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.