Imagine the Old North. What can it be? Can you see it in this land, from your green hill across the marsh how the ordinary people saw it?
Can you see ravens in trees amongst the crows? Was it common enough for magpies?
Can you imagine the rumours of embittered warlords and honey-tongued bards who sung their praises? Can you taste weak beer or braggot? Do you feast on dog or wild boar?
Can you imagine living in a world where the animals speak? How will you learn their tongues? Will they lead you into their expanses?
Your books are filled with stories. Can you imagine the ones who got away? How their hearts beat on river-banks and they were pierced by spears as carrion birds circled? How the sleek otter swept into the depths and carried their death-cries to his young? Can you imagine what the ravens whispered in their thatched nest?
Can you imagine the task of bringing peace to the battle-dead?
Where all the darkness of history wanders and I hold the spirits of Annwn back… can you imagine?
What can our poetry be? A sound, a scream, a panorama of the Old North in a beam of light?