To live in Wales is to be conscious at dusk of the spilled blood that went into the making of the wild sky

It is too late to start For destinations not of the heart . I must stay here with my hurt.

They left no books , Memorial to their lonely thought In grey parishes: rather they wrote On men's hearts and in the minds Of young children sublime words Too soon forgotten. God in his time Or out of time will correct this.

The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce with the furies. A mirror's temperature is always zero. It is ice in the veins. It's camera is an x-ray. It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own.

The old men ask for more time; the young waste it. And the philosopher simply smiles, knowing there is none there.

The deep spaces between stars , Fathomless as the cold shadow His mind cast.

I have been Merlin wandering in the woods Of a far country, where the winds waken Unnatural voices , my mind broken By a sudden acquaintance with man's rage.