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Runaway Years

 

Return to Wales

The surprise again of the sunken roads
and the hazel hedge topping the banks,
tilted and lonely the fly-away trees
and time riding by on the sensuous breeze
and the May-time sun with coaxing warmth
uncrumpling the crinkled leaves

and bright and empty, humped as pillows
hill after hill to the billowing sky
and scribbled in valleys the sad little farms
among stained green windows of willowy grass
leaded by hedgerows askew in the sun
in patternless peacefulness lie.

And handfuls of dandelions bursting and bright
among simmering grasses in sizzling light
where tables of ladies white petticoat spread
cupped blue with forget-me-nots, wild orchids red,
campions pink and pale as the moon
primroses laughing in frenzied festoon.

Reeling in shadows under winter bent trees
the bluebells are ringing with madrigal ease
while emerald and golden, fiery and high
the gorse bushes chorus the edge of the sky
and the song of my hurt turns to music the tears
for the loved and the lost and the runaway years.

 

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