WALES

Emma Crookes 

It’s easy to believe
In magic when the clouds are lying
Heavy on the tops of the mountains,
The stone walls threading like veins
Through the rolling green countryside.

Rocks lie abandoned,
Tossed away as if the playthings of giants.
Black with damp, the pale sunlight casting
Shadows as strange creatures curled
And sleeping on the cold, unyielding stone

Bare trees stand,
Like sentinels in neat rows across the hills.
Regiment upon regiment, soldiers of bark
And moss and root and branch, surveying
The orange-green landscape before them.

Tiny sheep wander
Nibbling on coarse grass and perching
On rocky outcroppings through which
Waterfalls thread like fine white silk
Into the smooth darkness of the lake.

A tiny homestead
Nestles against the wind in the crook
Of the mountain, its walls built with
Stones stacked one upon another,
And the windows glowing with firelight.