Over the mountains, past Y Geffir, down
into the farmers’ valley, along a road
by a gentle stream, damp and green and dark
under clouds that today are not raining:
Rhos y Gwalia, so peaceful and beautiful,
was unwelcoming, the spirit of Cain’s murdered brother
shivering in fear of being discovered
without property, a vagrant rustling sheep
on the lonely moor and butchering
the judgement in their eyes, drinking
their life blood and roasting their meat
on a guilty fire of sticks stolen from the hedge.
