I have nowhere to go. The swift satellites show The clock of my whole being is slow.

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil that goes like blood to the poems making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.

Verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty

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

I have nowhere to go. The swift satellites show The clock of my whole being is slow.

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

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