Battering wind upon its knife edged fronds of
power cast an eerie blackness over the Darren.
Look up at
the light fed specks in the vista of blackness
as they send a parochial warmth down to your visual perceptions;
of fields and green that maintain the harvest.
Up there at its yonder point tills the farmworker and son
breaking down the barriers of a time long gone.
toil of pastures and beyond reap the harvest that is wanted
to feed the valley mouth and beyond.
Fresh is the night air that envelopes your lungs and fragrances them
with the valley’s lifeblood; a
lifeblood that has been there for centuries past.
Oh wieldy Darren bach your pulse is the growth of the ground you lie
suspended above the bleak gelded copper town.
Up , up and further up sings the voice as Welsh as the next
exalting the praises of a home brimmed with its
Stark contrasts will bleach the cloth that shrouds the mound
as if it were some great cover of sanctuary.
Deep within us we feel that alive is the beat of the Celt’s
tambour; straddled between this and that
Deep within us is the soul that circles and lands on this
Brythonic mist blowing in from the channel over mound