DOLWYDDELAN: FOUR POEMS

DOLWYDDELAN

This ancient village
in the meadow of the Irish saint,
once home to Gwynedd’s princes—
Moel Siabod’s barren peak
broods over stone houses
the color of the Welsh sky,
now homes for commuters,
and weekenders from England.


IN THE GARDEN BEHIND GWENALLT COTTAGE

The afternoon sun
through a brief hole
in the slate grey clouds.
I put down my book
and absorb each molecule
of light and warmth.

In the garden behind the cottage,
listening to the stream,
still full from the morning’s rain,
I watch the evening sun
light the clouds gathered over Moel Siabod.


MOEL SIABOD

We learned a few things
about each other
on the hike up Moel Siabod.
Although I may sound authoritative,
I do not always know the way to go.
Zach, although at times
you seem lost in your own world,
you are capable of leading.
And Dylan, in your calm way,
you quietly watch over both of us
and keep us on our path.


THE WELSH SKY

Slate grey clouds again—where is the sun?
A dour sky, for a dour climate,
a dour land, and a brooding people.
No wonder the preachers’ hwyl
was filled with hellfire and brimstone.