Wednesday, 27 March 2013

Moel Siabod

Peat marsh: an extent

the irregular beat threads
and spreads out under foot

What is it there?
That old mud and sleepy oil

The secrets
against clocks

Rot yellow grass
burnt pieces
of far away

Sheep shit
rounded in
small beauty clusters

The incorrect trees
happen barely

and the stones clicking low
are almost forever

How the skin of lake mid way freezes!

one blurry
curving line

There were once small fires
in Quarrymen's barracks

Now the ravens
intimate here
flying and hidden
kissing behind rocks

upside down darkness
jagged     feathered

no warning cawing
but talking with each other
coming nearer

They were as blacke 
as they might be

South east spur
path markers lost

Our human foreignness coats

The summit we didn't make
leaving us

True animals now skirting
and delighting

Scrambling down with
gloved hands in the snow

This poem is in many places dependent on the observations of the Wooden Girl. Often, she looks and delights while I march ahead or the camera organises my vision. The scene is Moel Siabod, the Mountain (I will call it a mountain) that can be seen in last week's photographs.

This post is for


  1. The incorrect trees
    happen barely

    That captures it

  2. re the poem: WG's "ayes" have it so that WB can give it to us nicely--nice pair.

  3. Thsnk you, all.


    I've heard people describe this landscape as bleak. The word gets nowhere near it. There's few who know how to look: the Wooden Girl is one. Nothing in excess here but everything matters with force.

    We try to be of service, Vassilis.

  4. One person's bleakness = another's beauty.

    In landscape as in life, there may be an austerity that is bracing.

  5. And too, for some, an austerity may contain an abundance within it, hidden but discoverable with a bit of patience.

    (Patience, that outdated, outmoded virtue.)

  6. This is right.

    Most people don't know how to take time. They know how to serve it, alright.

    Waiting and looking is the thing.