Tag Archives: poetry

Nabod y Cartref

Who made me?
– well you should ask.
It’s now you’re asking, years later
after the rain and the wind.
Not them – they’ve been going round,
talked about wholesale replacement,
gone back inside.
Wasn’t him – he came to write,
never touched a mallet or the fencing pliers,
left in the winter.
Who remembers before then?
The sheep are gone.
So’s the butcher, and so are the women
who cooked lamb on Sundays.
Say it was the family – might as well be, now.
Say it was the ninth generation
in that old stone house there,
fed up with hauling stone and lopping thorn.
Might be the forestry down the road
gave up the stakes, might not.
Could be Taid whacked them in,
could be Huw from the village,
with his shirt off for Fflur to watch.
Could be they married, later,
moved out to Liverpool.
Doesn’t make a difference, now.
The sun’s still shining.

Infrequent poetry

I used to write a lot more than I do now – I haven’t been able to do this on a regular basis for quite a few years. So enjoy this one.

We understand the world through ink and light;
we draw, we see, we draw again
as faith becomes our paper, hopeful-bright.

Mathematics helps us get it right,
models all that is within one brain.
We understand the world through ink and light.

Which is most important, brush or sight?
We glance from world to model, back again,
and faith becomes our paper, hopeful-bright.

Each drop of ink transforms the paper – white
becomes a sheaf of colours with each stain.
We understand the world through ink and light.

There’s close-packed worlds in everything we write –
a thousand contexts that we can’t explain,
for faith becomes our paper, hopeful-bright.

Our dear friends help us share in their delight –
they show us how to see a truth again,
to understand the world through ink and light.
Our faith becomes our paper, hopeful-bright.