Sentinel Poetry Magazine January 2003



Rivers and paths meet
in the belly of a valley,
high where the hillside
rears up against itself
and nervy sheep glance
from behind clumps.

A scar reaches up
from the wet bog
and over that
a ridge drawn
tight to the sky.

Hills of scree
look like cairns
from here but
the mine shafts,
now disused, are

Above, coloured dots
shift about the rubble,
Tryfan's granite ribcage
looms to the east, and
we keep moving, holding
the wind at our backs
at first and when at the top
we hide from it and eat
quickly, pass in the cold
a few words to other
walkers. Enjoy
the view to the north.

And plan the way
down, suddenly
out of wind, listening
for the rivers underfoot.

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