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 wake to the blackbird call

 

There are old bridges, old paths, old ways lost

among ancient trees and mossy stones;

a roadside cave hints at brigands crossed -

or cŵn annwn spiriting the bones

of the dead to the darkling depths below

 

Between the trees slim waterfalls cascade

over slate and wet-black rock: small things

of fast twisting, splashing, shining braid

sent from hidden tarn or bubbling springs;

and walls of moss cool drip to join the flow

 

In deep river pools great trout lie quiet

in still waters 'neath the surface flow

which leaves the pond in tumbling riot:

through channels carved many years ago

when the gwragedd annwn swam through their realm