THE DYING

by Ken Jones
Each morning
if the sun shows up
together we climb the hill

For now the turning world is squeezing the sunshine out of the deep valley of the Rheidol. So each morning I have to climb higher and higher behind the house to reach my bright, warm-hearted companion. There I find her just peeping through the saw-edged line of spruce which fringes the skyline on the other side of the cwm.
 
Twilight in Coed Simdhe Llwyd -- Grey Chimney Wood now haunted by the yellow fronds of dying bracken, standing spectral in the stillness of the evening. The bracken, the silent oaks, and this old man, all bewitched together.

Cutting through my reverie
the sharp splatter of rain
on dead leaves

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