(in memoriam Elizabeth Coare)
From the valley you watched the silent notes of sheep on a green sheet, their paths the lines of the stave.
From the beach you collected pebbles and polished and varnished them into landscapes; you gave us a handful in a fragile bowl of clay the dull colour of the green-blue sea.
The coming of the swifts cheered you in your weakness.
You read Homer for the last time while you could still see the breathing and worship the gods by drinking wine.
When the swifts left, your tough spirit broke through the shell.
‘Byd mewn carreg gron’
© copyright text and translation Mary Burdett-Jones 2023