Brynheulog.

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Brynheulog

NOTE: Brynheulog is a farm on a hill above Llanddewi Brefi, the village where I grew up.

I always think of stars on hearing summer.

Not the sea nor the sand crashing by.

Up by Brynheulog after an evening�s drinking,

dead stars drowning in the village sky.

A hemisphere at rest, eyes shut like gates.

Even the fields are full of sleep.

Farmers drowsily padlock cowsheds,

Plough through their supper, count their sheep.

We were young then and had the time to stare at space.

Our prize for the climb of a moonlit hill.

Lie down by a crossroads and guess at constellations,

Drunk on our innocence. Young then still.

And whilst we laughed and joked ourselves

against the morning cold,

dreaming farmers turned like planets as

the night grew old.