taking with it the fierce glare of the sun.
Yesterday, sunlight glanced off hills,
danced on rivers, but I am used
to this gentle Welsh spirit
that now envelops the landscape,
soft green mist that returns to the hills,
softening edges, softening mood.
Curvaceous, a line of grey green hills
etched in waves of leafiness,
dark green towering oaks,
hedgerows draped with dog roses,
flat, rounded clusters of elderflowers,
the gracious sweep of the bronzed maple.
Tutored by nature’s harmony,
my eye picks out the tell-tale signs
of human intervention, marks
alien pylons astride hilltops.
Tall, straight telegraph poles
push their way up through trees,
geometric road signs warn of hidden dangers,
along straight, tarmacked roads.
The sign for Maesmawr Farm
shouts its rectilinear message,
tempting me with luxury lodges.
The arrow points straight to them.
Even the forestry commission
superimposes its orderly rows
on nature’s wayward curves.
But the rolling hills triumph,
pouring out their balm,
setting my spirit free,
tracing a spherical globe
and the unspoken
bias of the universe.
Julia Duke
bias of the universe.
Julia Duke