CELTIC BECKONINGS:

From the sun-kissed Spanish banalities,

 Slowly, I cold-tiptoed into Celtic realities,

Beckoning finger of paths & old rowan trees,

Where red foxes peep & red hedgerows freeze.

Misty meanderings of wind-whipped windpipes,

Through fields of old sheep & haw-berries ripe,

Horses, cobbled & coloured, go clipping-clopping,

Kestrels plummet upon rabbits, fast-fall, dropping.

This place where rivers flow through old Welsh hills,

Where in valleys, the ancient dead lie quiet & still,

I wander through grey graveyards of rowan & raven,

Of those beneath tombs who have found their haven.

I roam past mossy pathways & blue hedgerow sloes,

Where daffodils dream & autumn breath now blows,

The places of promised primroses & now musty fungi,

Filling me with misty doubts, asking, “Who on earth am I”.

Give me the cold, the mists, & sky of pewter grey sheen,

Give me their green forests of all that´s hidden & unseen,

Beckoning of deep roots, calling to my old soul of unrest,

Where the Dragon sits deep within my Welsh beating breast.