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Across our river, with its three green islets, there lies
in the middle of my window the sloping field of Troed Rhiw
Fron. Rising behind it,
Steep wildwood
trailing mists
the reek of foxes
Higher still, along the top of my window frame, a fringe
of trees stands fretted delicate against the sky. And up in
the top left corner, a thousand feet above the sea, rises
the bald Iron Age hill fort of Y Castell. This was a stronghold
of Yr Hen Bobl -- The Old People, with some half remembered
story of a massacre long ago…
Three fine horses graze in the field, rumps to the western
wind, their long black flowing tails and manes. And sometimes,
Across the foaming river
from the moonlit field
pounding hooves
Every morning a ritual is enacted.
Bent over
their barrow of dung
the old couple
In this landscape of winter wind, struggling against the
rain soaked hillside, the two hunched figures push the barrow
back to the field -- a bale of hay. They arrived two years
ago from the leaden flatlands of eastern England and live
in an old caravan below the field. Even on mild days are muffled
up against the cold. And the sun’s visits to their bleak north-facing
side of the cwm make no difference to their plodding routines.
Separated by ford and up-river footbridge from the dozen scattered
homesteads of the Upper Cwm, they are rarely seen on this
side of the Rheidol.
They are the humble servants of their horses, which know
neither saddle nor bridle.
by
Ken Jones
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