Sarn Rhiw

0
10

So we know
she must have said something
to him—What language,
life? Oh, what language?

Thousands of years later
I inhabit a house
whose stone is the language
of its builders. Here

by the sea they said little.
But their message to the future
was: Build well. In the fire
of an evening I catch faces

staring at me. In April,
when light quickens and clouds
thin, boneless presences
flit through my room.

Will they inherit me
one day? What certainties
have I to hand on
like the punctuality

with which at the moon’s
rising, the bay breaks
into a smile as though meaning
were not the difficulty at all?

Rate this post
Previous articleSong at the Year’s Turning
Next articlePouf

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here