Peter Gruffydd
clogwyn du'r arddu
Face of ages of weather,
Rain lines and mist tap
Black stone of your heart.
Those sure sheep, nimble numb-
Shulls, flick dung, stones
On clinging climbers;
Clouds gorge the grave clefts.
At the foot gullies spill,
Carved across butt jaws
Like bombing scars. Stillness.
Sometimes a raven, wisping
Out of rock darkness,
Cronks across the coiled
Calm that sun can only
Shadow, deepen. You swallow
Light, kill rays, break dawn's
Mirror on the ponderous quiet
Of your explosive stones.
Page(s) 49
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