(for Gwenllian Spink)
After climbing along a ridge with a thin veil of soil over rock, driving past Pantrhydyrebolion, Blaenmelindwr a Syfydrin, lakes left by the ebb tide of a lost industry, I see under the crest of a wave of land a broken mast, ropes still taught – a shipwreck on Pumlumon?
or the strings of an Aeolian harp to lure a reluctant wind to sing, silent witness to the mildness of summer?
or a pylon toppled into three pieces, steel ribs soldered together and a web unconnected to the world?
or the remains of a long house, ridge-piece, beams and wattle, where poems are sung to the lord of the moor?
or a giant bending down to tie his shoelace as he walks uphill?
or a transient megalith, portal to an ancient world of giants and sun rituals?
Not a work of art interpreted? Do I hear voices in a language not yet vanished, gallery goers reading the lesson for the day?
Could it be a loadstone for travellers of the future?
‘Cerflun wedi’i leoli dros dro’
© copyright text and translation Mary Burdett-Jones 2023