My dear homeland, with fields so wide
And rivers that carve through vast, silent tide
On green hills where the calm winds flow
I left my heart in your soil below

Where wheat grows tall, and autumn turns gold
I, far from you, in the cold snow unfold
The distant peaks, where bears are hunted still
Sing in the breeze, a sweet, wistful thrill

Oh, my homeland, why did I leave thee?
With fo...

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Floating out on Windermere

Below the towering fells

Enveloped by the beauty here

And hosts of daffodils

Over the side of the little boat

Oars churn the placid lake

Where unexpected items float

To the Leven and the Crake

They meander through the baby trout

And clog their little gills

Of their origin there can be no doubt

Septic tanks and sewage spills

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I think I only walked down Fleet Street once,

my grubwork year in London. Not much wowed,

not like I’d heard - most rags no more ensconced

but fled to Docklands - the street name but a label          

for billionaire media magnates trumpeting loud

reactionary taunts and celebrity libel.

I had an inkling then: there was a proud

historic river, sadly much polluted,            

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version without the Welsh folklore

Under the yellow-green of sunlit beech

between banks of bluebells' hazy blue

where supple crosiers of new fern reach             

over verdant moss still damp with dew

a grassy lane runs beside the river

In the mystic quiet of a leafy dome

of grey bark ash, beech and mighty oak

a far cuckoo calls all walkers home

but we pass u...

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Under the yellow-green of sunlit beech

between banks of bluebells' hazy blue

where supple crosiers of new fern reach             

over verdant moss still damp with dew

a grassy lane runs beside the river

In the mystic quiet of a leafy dome

of grey bark ash, beech and mighty oak

a far cuckoo calls the dryads home

but we pass unseen by woodland folk

'til tylwyth teg w...

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A STEP TOWARDS WINTER.

I look into the mirror’s depthless space

and note the wrinkles that, somehow have grown

into something I wish I didn’t own.

The knife of age has cut into my face.

The greys within my hair have moved apace

from where the bird of youth had lightly flown

to make a nest of life that it could own.

I wish it hadn’t sprinted in that race.

...

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