ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS

There lies the shot-silken sea in March;

Silver lame, becalmed as a pool, still as a post, not a ripple or wave insight.

Beside the castle ruins is an old house

with rhomboid walls, steep steps, quirky stair 

and two chatty old dears of fresh star cuisine -

dream soups, homemade blackberry cakes;

and tiny teapots with quaint   knitted, cosies.

The hills are worn down like dunes,

smooth as pillows, haunches, cheeks

all the way from ?

high above the valleys and wind-vaned horizons beyond Abertifi

Like petroglyph, hulks of highland cattle are sky-line silhouetted 

- while the kites and buzzards swirl 

above a tiny road snaking beneath: 

where the ancient ice floes once slid,

 carving and scalloping the land

as if the granite peaks were clay.