I keep returning to the same land. It is my neighbour after all.
Beyond a rudimentary wooden fence there's a no-man's-land half-wild and half-tamed ; beyond that the Waun we once called Common Land.
Of course, it was never officially 'common' : only that so many went there for many different reasons.
Back then, when we first arrived, there were no fences.
Years later there were strange rumours of cows falling down unprotected mine-shafts and we suspected a conspiracy, preparation for the inevitable opencast mining.
Because this is both a land of past coal (small shafts and drifts, many waste-heaps now overgrown ) and of future coal.
There remains a threat, though I'm told the Norwegian landowner is only thinking about the possibility of having a ski-slope there ( didn't we learn from the failure of the one at Troedyrhiw?).
This land - for all its absurd DANGER signs - is both precious and useless.
Precious ,above all, to the animals who live there : foxes, squirrels, frogs, lizards and too many birds to name ; precious to the myriad wild flowers and plants, to bramble, briar and ancient, druidic oaks.
Useless to successive owners, because so much coal is covered over by this flora and fauna ; coal to feed the final , hungry funnels before they're forever shut down.
( A huge hollow across valley looms over the town like a warning).
I keep returning to this land, like my painter friend overlooking Swansea Bay and visiting its waters in his dreams.
It's impossible to stop it encroaching : wild roses, thistles and reeds invade the garden.
I have tasted the cress in thick bunches by streams ; cut myself blackberry picking ; fed horses by hand and been kicked by one.
I have inhaled the minty perfume on banks.
I've held a small frog on my palm ; stopped shocked as a fox crossed my path chasing a small bird.
Fed the geese as they hissed and gobbled ( owned by a butcher, destined for the blade).
Are there plans for this land?
Tir gwyllt, the Waun, moorland.
Great designs to pave, contain?
The cuckoo is late this year and doesn't call for long. Swallows sign with wings an invisible deed, for now owning the air .
The land belongs to all of us , and all of them......and none.
THE WAUN IN JUNE
Horses and cattle gone.
The grass grows long.
Old mine-shafts plugged,
bramble and fences surrounding.
Drift mines are suggestions,
tracks of shifted stones.
I miss the horse-riders,
tent mushrooms, disappearing lovers;
even dog-walkers rare,
bounding hounds lost in reeds.
Now's the time of year
for looking downwards :
Bird's Foot Trefoil, Lady's Smock,
Llysiau Taliesin underfoot ;
fallen daylight stars,
small delicate stories
pressed inside a book.
Draw curtains, turn pages.
Beyond a rudimentary wooden fence there's a no-man's-land half-wild and half-tamed ; beyond that the Waun we once called Common Land.
Of course, it was never officially 'common' : only that so many went there for many different reasons.
Back then, when we first arrived, there were no fences.
Years later there were strange rumours of cows falling down unprotected mine-shafts and we suspected a conspiracy, preparation for the inevitable opencast mining.
Because this is both a land of past coal (small shafts and drifts, many waste-heaps now overgrown ) and of future coal.
There remains a threat, though I'm told the Norwegian landowner is only thinking about the possibility of having a ski-slope there ( didn't we learn from the failure of the one at Troedyrhiw?).
This land - for all its absurd DANGER signs - is both precious and useless.
Precious ,above all, to the animals who live there : foxes, squirrels, frogs, lizards and too many birds to name ; precious to the myriad wild flowers and plants, to bramble, briar and ancient, druidic oaks.
Useless to successive owners, because so much coal is covered over by this flora and fauna ; coal to feed the final , hungry funnels before they're forever shut down.
( A huge hollow across valley looms over the town like a warning).
I keep returning to this land, like my painter friend overlooking Swansea Bay and visiting its waters in his dreams.
It's impossible to stop it encroaching : wild roses, thistles and reeds invade the garden.
I have tasted the cress in thick bunches by streams ; cut myself blackberry picking ; fed horses by hand and been kicked by one.
I have inhaled the minty perfume on banks.
I've held a small frog on my palm ; stopped shocked as a fox crossed my path chasing a small bird.
Fed the geese as they hissed and gobbled ( owned by a butcher, destined for the blade).
Are there plans for this land?
Tir gwyllt, the Waun, moorland.
Great designs to pave, contain?
The cuckoo is late this year and doesn't call for long. Swallows sign with wings an invisible deed, for now owning the air .
The land belongs to all of us , and all of them......and none.
THE WAUN IN JUNE
Horses and cattle gone.
The grass grows long.
Old mine-shafts plugged,
bramble and fences surrounding.
Drift mines are suggestions,
tracks of shifted stones.
I miss the horse-riders,
tent mushrooms, disappearing lovers;
even dog-walkers rare,
bounding hounds lost in reeds.
Now's the time of year
for looking downwards :
Bird's Foot Trefoil, Lady's Smock,
Llysiau Taliesin underfoot ;
fallen daylight stars,
small delicate stories
pressed inside a book.
Draw curtains, turn pages.
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