Yet more about water and rain…...
The Mawddach Estuary
So much to carry, so far.
The haggard sky is lumbering
home, weighed down
and blackfrown grumbling.
The crags of Cader Idris
mug her, puncture her sagging
bags which she has lugged
across the dull Atlantic ocean
and hands on hips, she pauses,
watches her salty shopping
spill over slate grey Dolgellau
and muttering, shakes her fists
at the hooded hills.
Walking deafens. Rain rattles
on jackets, boots suck the petering
path, white noise on a storm
But in the breath rests, hear
the bog making water music,
singing a high and sighing ballad
of the love of the peat for its rain
and the air which comes between them.
Gashed, the hill
and the crimson Mawddach
gushes from its arteries,
pumping through valves,
pooling indigo, shallowing
copper as dried blood
rusting the edges of the wound.
The roots of the leaning trees
cannot stitch it; the fingers
of reaching bracken cannot heal
it; the robber who thought he saw gold,
cannot steal it.
Where the Afon Wnion runs
the sewin swim silver at night,
riding the tide to the high altar
where the river and surge still
a silk sheet for their fleeting union.
Last night, eels, sliding
through the sand fingers and rounded palms
of the estuary
Tonight, glow-worms, myth
dancers in borrowed moonlight, glinting
in the sparse marsh
Tomorrow, from Dinas Oleu,
initials traced by children, messages left
for the high tide
They are long queuing to get in
at the Harbour Fish Bar,
but everything else
is moving out.
The sea sucks
the teatime river
at the flat sky.
The last man,
watching them swell
taut and pregnant on the horizon,
shuffles one step closer to shelter.