by Noragh Jones

In the cefnwlad, the Welsh-speaking folk used to say the Gwyll Gi, the Dog of Darkness, has got hold of you, when a person was down in the dumps. Breathing your breath, red-eyed, his padding footsteps, the unsleeping hound of hell.

darker by far
than the wet slates of Blaenau
my mood tonight

Outside this old stone house the wind snarls and snaps, breaking off branches and tearing the clothes from the line.

all the long night
demented demons
howling at the windows

Morning at last. A dull grey light passes for dawn. The rain is still falling like itís the end of the world. How do you build an ark? And what good would it do? Isnít there always a sloppy workman who leaves a nail hole unfilled for the devil to slip in?
Then the rain eases for a moment to a pale drizzle. The hills and woods slip back into place.

and look! a red kite
over our Mount Ararat
dangling its fresh prey


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