MURK:

Bring the sky down, in soft-dove-grey tears,

Upon the wet-field-sheep´s soft downy ears,

Falling softly down, from sad & pewtered sky,

Glistening droplets, within the ruddy fox´s eye.

From the Black Mountain´s murk, clod & slag,

Spun upon the spindle, from life´s  bent old hag,

Field, tor & hillock, all bewitched in olive green,

Goblins hidden deep, yet by humans to be seen.

Bequeathed from Dragon´s mist-spread breath,

To all Welshmen life, but to aliens, surely death,

The drizzled weeping tears, of satin, shivered grey,

From hawk-beaked-heavens, to whom we daily pray.

Of sodden blackened clod & dampened muddy murk,

Saddened awakening, from dreams in shuddered jerk,

Give me this old land, of green & grey-plutonic sky,

And I shall be peaceful, when my time comes to die.