SHADOWS.

I look up from digging

And there's Dai Bwlch on top of his mountain.

He's completely still

Like he's growing from the rock,

Rooted though his boots.

I feel lightweight, embarrassed,

An English voyeur

Intruding into some private family affair.

How many Dai's must have stood

On this skyline, their faces cracked and burnt by the wind?

And they all knew

Every inch of every sour acre,

And they all knew

Every branch of every stunted tree,

And

Every twig of every hedge.

And they have all done battle

With this same dirty yellow sky.

And they are all there still

In a line

By his side,

The long shadows,

More stubborn than stone.