Gwinllan a roddwyd ...


 [i]

It was the farmer's business
To grub the elder tree
Where field and garden meet

Our idleness to make wines
From dark bitter berries
And flowers that will not set.

 [ii]

In the morning
The rain came
And the wind

Blew all the blossom
From the apple tree.

At night
The moon shone
On grass littered
With white petals.
The sweetness of apples
Strewn like confetti
For a barren marriage