Ogwen

Idwal Cottage, grey, rainy afternoon.
Down with the milk can to Emyr, Blaen Nant.
His sheep in mist come sudden through the gloom.
His talk's of subsidies, the usual rant,
his neuralgia. Toiling back up the track,
I see grey mist part, high on Y Garn,
then there's a lifting, disclosing black
rock pinnacles that dominate the farm.
I'm given my own lifting — of the heart
as the mists start flying, changing their tints.
Blown thin by blue wind, they clear a rampart,
teasing about the summit's imminence.

Lift! Let chapel bells time my heart again
in light tomorrow on Pen-yr-Olou-Wen.

Copyright © 2004 Bill Presley All rights reserved
from Entering the Tapestry
Enitharmon Press / Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission