Nantgarw 2008


On a moor mount many rocks, Potent volcanoes they were, scraped by the ice Parmigiano on the crusts of land. Few came clothed in skin (and not just their own) to raise stones lest they be entirely forgotten. Power fades as fields are cut – water, iron, new made stone and wire. The bones have left the cromlech To space where once was knowledge of the sun. Crawling, eyes blinking, we can pass to granite glimmerings of that time. What we see is the sight of others on modern crystal as on graved boulder. A portal is more than a way, Way, way more, because it is a way through.


Ebbw


Not new, not to us. The spore scarred concrete shows where metal rails marshalled Land flat, rubble strewn meant a place of work. Now Thatcher’s children are sick Tended mallards in a more caring age. The vault is emptied, but not yet empty. Crunch.


Tim Brenan


13


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