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

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.

Is there a place here for the spirit ? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind 's failure to explain itself?

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

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

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.

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