Welsh Hillside (Poetry)

Beneath the sky’s benevolent blue lid
the spangled grasses bowed and partly hid
a gleam of white — abandoned stretch of bones
that lazed, content — identity disowned.

The empty skull, unfurrowed, sockets set
on death’s horizons — undefined as yet —
this final attitude displayed no fear
but, unresisting, breathed its last breath here

then settled to each season’s quiet display —
administering a gradual decay —
leaving bone anonymous, immune
to scorching sun or apathetic moon.

Between neat ribs, convolvulus slow-twined
a subtle wreath and tender grass enshrined
stark contours with a green organic shroud
that hugged them to the mothering warm ground —

as though the soil was comfort, weeds a balm
to soothe and cultivate this sense of calm
and empathy with roots. The mystic turf
claimed open grave and cradle — death and birth —

whose images in bone and flowers caught,
pressed deep, emotive seeds of druid-thought —
that I could do no better than this sheep —
and mark some lonely hill for my last sleep.


Winner of Literary Review poetry competition, appeared in monthly magazine and anthology It’s Her Voice That Haunts Me Now. Pub: Richard Cohen Books 1996