Cars, lorries, sheep liners moving up and down the road
stopping at pubs for a cheery one
where the coals glow, damp logs fizz mid-daying
the sun laced light on the grey-grass hills
dark firs sentinel beside the farms
cheerful sheep eyeing the black foraging birds
red god firing a thousand hearths.
Today, Mrs Sims, the Post Office lady bustles around in the rain
to open the door. "Horrible weather!" she says,
"Starting a cold too -"
Two letters for Poland - I tell her
"Poland is it then?" she eyes them doubtfully
"Where's that then? Europe is it?"
"Not quite - a bit beyond - but will be someday!"
"Ah - yes!" she finds it in the book,
triumphantly. "43 pee then it is twice over."
Already in the early afternoon
light fades grizzling the land no shadows now,
A giant owl perches on a fencepost -
no just a fencepost really,
presences swarm in the groves the crannies
of the hills, the old Welsh spooks,
the powers reaching the not-quite fearful
heart greening in the dark light
fading, yellow flames
in the village houses far below.