in rivers of right they spawn

eggs already torn and bent

that grow deprived of dawn

to salve and heal their rent

and battered by a rusty flail

to a state not unlike trance

a polka spinning them pale

to a hapless agony of dance

chalking symbols onto slate

a scratch makes evil mute,

silent observances of hate

doomed flora lacking root

sometimes they...

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Sitting to the east

Sloping down to the edge  

Of that other world

In the summer sun

In the winter chill

The sentinel watched over

The little family in the cottage in the hollow

Lately it had felt her sorrow  

It knew when she left Pant y Lleiniau

And walked slowly along the cart track

To reach the little bridge under the trees

Where she crossed Nant yr Efail ...

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