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Ted Walter

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Cwm Penmachno

Houses yes, but windows unlit.
The road ends here. A nameplate,
Cwm Penmachno, carries a warning.
Palm of a cupped hand, mountains
darkening, here at the wrist are bars
of a gate thrown open, slate
catching the last light that rides
a rush of water. It has rained all day.

The car parked, cooling, sulking even,
a huge rail ramp inviting us up,
but we’ve arrived late, rails gone,
slate walls collapsing and there,
in the grass, roof-trusses, felled
triangles of Umber waiting to rise,
to hold slate roofs - or iron - yes
iron that rang to the thrown stone,

its trajectory back to the hand
of my son, shocking the silence
under holiday sky, when men moved
at the edge of vision waiting
the bugle call to herald explosion,
their absence palpable, every cog,
every rusting cable, every cut slate
calling up hands, throats, sweat, dust,

darkness. The track back under
a night sky has more light than days
spent in the caverns, a candle only
high in the roof, slate shape
under fingers, iron on iron, on slate.
Under our feet now, the cathedral
they carved swallows turbulent water
swirling beneath slate at the tip’s edge.

Page(s) 7

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