Huw Knoyle
Mystery In Glynneath
I turn my head from a cold typewriter
Tonight holding little appeal.
Elbowing the window ledge,
Inhaling the old man’s perfume,
When a giant sitting high on branches
Demands attention.
Riotous silver sprays coat old wood,
Each petal different in its lacy cluster,
When suddenly a knife pierces night air,
Collects oil and lands on the table.
Alarmed by the unexpected intrusion,
I study it for traces of a flag or footprints,
But find neither,
I touch the intruder gently, but feel nothing.
Grasping my pipe and glasses,
To more fully examine
That which does not quite reveal itself,
Only to find it has gone.
Page(s) 113
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