Yet more about water and rain…...

The Mawddach Estuary




So much to carry, so far.

The haggard sky is lumbering

home, weighed down

and blackfrown grumbling.

The crags of Cader Idris

mug her, puncture her sagging

bags which she has lugged

across the dull Atlantic ocean

and hands on hips, she pauses,

watches her salty shopping

spill over slate grey Dolgellau

and muttering, shakes her fists

at the hooded hills.




Walking deafens. Rain rattles

on jackets, boots suck the petering

path, white noise on a storm

blackened hillside.

But in the breath rests, hear

the bog making water music,

singing a high and sighing ballad

of the love of the peat for its rain

and the air which comes between them.




Gashed, the hill

and the crimson Mawddach

gushes from its arteries,

pumping through valves,

pooling indigo, shallowing

copper as dried blood

rusting the edges of the wound.

The roots of the leaning trees

cannot stitch it; the fingers

of reaching bracken cannot heal

it; the robber who thought he saw gold,

cannot steal it.




Where the Afon Wnion runs

the sewin swim silver at night,

riding the tide to the high altar

where the river and surge still

a silk sheet for their fleeting union.




Last night, eels, sliding

through the sand fingers and rounded palms

of the estuary


Tonight, glow-worms, myth

dancers in borrowed moonlight, glinting

in the sparse marsh


Tomorrow, from Dinas Oleu,

initials traced by children, messages left

for the high tide




They are long queuing to get in

at the Harbour Fish Bar,

but everything else

is moving out.

The sea sucks

the teatime river


a straw,

blows bubbles

at the flat sky.

The last man,

watching them swell

taut and pregnant on the horizon,

shuffles one step closer to shelter.