A Mumbled Sigh

So many dead poets wandering across this moor make it strange – all the rhymes they did not complete come unbidden into your ears like the water did when you both swam in the stream lower down.

Shop Window – Pentre Gwynfryn

No priceless junk in the whistling wind here
Takes its colour from the sun that covers it,
Unbought in the window for years.
Every year we passed it, and commented,
The cornflakes box, nearly white with fading,
The cheap toys, guns and hoops and soldiers,
Fallen sometimes, into a mess of flies and webs,
That fills the window, makes the future real.

Numbers pile up here like sand and gravel,
Ourselves defined in civilized society,
Taxed, regulated born and ended in a day,
An afternoon of history, a summer’s fading,
Dusty with the skin of every human airborne.
Scraped at every contact, arm on hand on skin,
In the shafts of light that silence me,
Motes in the sky, beaming down and down.