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 -

invisible presence

sunbeam through cloud.


Tap tap, stone on wood,

Wordless manifestation.

Man of the mountain- tell me who you are


December 1999. May 2001