In the gathering dusk
from the ridge of the mountain
someone looks down on our home.
He was there before we came,
before the Romans walked our track
or the ancient Brits dug for lead on the cold moor.
Somewhere among oaks and birches his woodland dwelling,
from the crest of the hill
he checks us out.
In windy twilight have you not seen him ?
Grey shadow among trees
secretive yet never far away.
Whistle and he'll come to you
Turn about suddenly - you'll catch his silhouette
against the crest.
Asleep in the heather drifting mists caress your cheek.
The old Welsh knew his name
no one hereabouts can speak it anymore.
Tapping on the fence post with a hillside stone -
sunbeam through cloud.
Tap tap, stone on wood,
Man of the mountain- tell me who you are
December 1999. May 2001