To a Poet Met in Cwm Dyli
Gray goblets of clouds
not yet drunk by sun: gulls stitch
the sky together.
Under the mountain
a wanderer searches for
substance of his craft:not metals or gems
or woods or firs but only
words to weave and bind,words to cast and carve.
He tilts up flat stones to look
underneath for blindburrowing earth-words.
He parts each stiff clump of grass
to see if quietwinds, in carding it,
have left any words there. He
seeks words of white flame
to kindle his tongue,
and supple green fern-words, and
words of still waterto flow into
the shapes of vessels. The sun and
the moon bring him words.
The clouds melt and drip
words on him: cold gulls cry words
into the morning.