If I could sit for long enough
and really listen. I could hear
a breath rising up through
the centuries , exhaling
in this moment. There
is a gathering in these
walls. An eisteddfod.
The poet’s breath passing
from father to daughter
and mother to son. The old
mortar crumbles, ancient
grain falls out of the walls
and with it the smell of newly
cut hay. A young farmer scything
where the moor meets the valley.
His words ride the air and then,
like the hoverfly are gone.