Fred Schofield
Somewhere in Brecon
(for Arwyn Evans)
9 April 2005
White frost on grass and bushes. Old friends and new. Each with our own struggle, we straggle up the mountain – pausing for breath, or to regroup.
Sweat clings, the gradient increases. The rocky path streaked with frozen traces of a stream. Above the ridge a raven calls. We peer into the glacial valley rounded as an ice-cream scoop. Villages below like toys.
A clear view of the three beacons where once landmark fires were lit. Then into the fierce wind, icicles hanging from terraced peat. No time for anything but walking hard, as the raven swoops and glides.
through wind-drawn tears
seeking out a rock
for the cairn
Page(s) 39
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