Brecon on a blue day
with greens green
and fields brown and tilled
and tanning
lazily awaiting
later harvest
when benefits of this weather
as with memory
will ripen
into sustenance to
see you through whatever
cold may lie ahead.
***
What if Van Gogh
had been waylaid
by Wales instead
of lingering in
London?
Would he have
found happiness in his
colours in
his art
before the madness
was too strong?
***
The smell of the
concrete, alive in
the rain, the
Brit-summer
soundtrack,
the green, wet
refrain.
***
Maybe this is
poets’
country;
the Beacons’
shade,
the borderlands;
blood/brain
barrier of
landscape;
animal &
scientific both;
body’s
inner rivers,
& edging
verdance of the
mind.
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