Mist holds the land in a deep remembering;
what was, what is, what will or never be.
Its spell of white is a stage for birds,
heard yet unseen.
From a bench I stare into mist’s nowhere,
ears open to piquant exchanges,
a distant woodpecker playing xylophone,
tapping out morse-code.
A stream rides over the edges.
Sublime instinct compels me to follow
with colourful thunder and winged voices
to Annwn where birds sing in tune.
Through river-portals like river-mist
I come and go freely where worlds
lie open in mist-trance,
in its whiteness dart and dance.
From the land’s deep remembering
I bring back a possibility:
the sun a moon in the river’s sky,
pale and enduring when mist melts:
A song to gift. And how do I repay the gift
of this visionary landscape,
my lord of mist,
the bird-like voices of people
who took me somewhere?
The scene I saw and can tell no-one?
At the seat of the wood a gift for a gift.
My song the cold sun at the heart of winter.