The Far West Coast - 1963
Black flow the clouds from Cymru's heights,
like molten lead they cross the deep,
heavy with sorrow from the hills
they crack and weep.
The winds bring down from Wyddfa's slopes
a grief that is too hard to bear,
they murmur it in deep regret
in dark despair.
“Tell me, you winds that scream and cry,
that blast the rocky slopes around,
that thunder over land and sea
and roll on down.
Tell of the men that stay your might
who live and die in hope and fear...
whisper the secrets that you hold
as I stand here -
“Tell of the mountain men who fight
to dot the hills with grazing sheep,
who plod the hills from morn till night,
and never sleep,
who worry on from day to day
as skies grow dark and east winds howl,
and cannot rest for fear of snow
and spit, and scowl.
“How many such have struggled hard.
have tried in vain to tame your might,
have floundered in your swirling drifts
and sunk from sight?”
I stand beneath the distant crags
beyond the marshes wide and free.
a watcher on the Far West Coast
beside the sea.
From long stone hills on either side
the clouds sweep down to meet the sea.
“You winds that chase the ebbing tide,
confide in me!”
*
That lonely wind is screaming still,
it haunts the corners of my brain.
It whispers but this one command:
“Return again!
Take the slow train that hugs the bay,
brave the hard rain that whistles free,
and hear the secrets in the wind
beside the sea!”
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