#WelshWriters
We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love’s moment
The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address… Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them.
With her fingers she turns paint into flowers, with her body flowers into a remembrance of herself. She is at work always, mending the garment
When I was a child and the soft f… Quietly as snow on the bare bough… My father brought me trout from th… From whose chill lips the water so… Dull grew their eyes, the beautifu…
It seems wrong that out of this bi… Black, bold, a suggestion of dark Places about it, there yet should… Such rich music, as though the not… Ore were changed to a rare metal
Iago Prytherch his name, though,… Just an ordinary man of the bald… Who pens a few sheep in a gap of c… Docking mangels, chipping the gree… From the yellow bones with a half-…
Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day’s co… Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all op…
I am, as you know, Walter Llywarc… Born in Wales of approved parents… Well goitred, round in the bum, Sure prey of the slow virus Bred in quarries of grey rain.
The old man comes out on the hill and looks down to recall earlier d… in the valley. He sees the stream… the church stand, hears the litter… children’s voices. A chill in the…
It was beautiful as God must be beautiful: glacial eyes that had looked on violence and come to terms with it; a body too huge
There are nights that are so still that I can hear the small owl call… far off and a fox barking miles away. It is then that I lie in the lean hours awake listening
My father is dead. I who am look at him who is not, as once he went looking for me in the woman who was.
It is this great absence that is like a presence, that comp… me to address it without hope of a reply. It is a room I enter from which someone has just
I have this that I must do One day: overdraw on my balance Of air, and breaking the surface Of water go down into the green Darkness to search for the door
Who said to the trout, You shall die on Good Friday To be food for a man And his pretty lady? It was I, said God,
