The building is new, not yet consecrated by long memories. It has studies, an atrium to receive light from heaven, and a quiet room apart, a beadhouse in the woods of a place. Under the red leaves of a cherry tree, frost stays till the middle of the morning, a fair reflection of its transience, but the night gets longer and the soil draws in.
‘Cartref olaf ei ddysg (J. E. Caerwyn Williams)’
© copyright text and translation Mary Burdett-Jones 2023