For Gwyn on Midsummer’s Day
If You had a grass it would be Yorkshire Fog.
From Your sleep of death,
from Your dreams,
through my eyes.
Let us be one this Midsummer day
as I walk at night with you through Annwn.
I will speak not of Yorkshire or Lancashire,
roses or dragons red and white,
of the battles we each
is wiser than
these worries like grassheads,
here one day and then gone the next.