Storm at Nant y blodau bach

We are hunkered down
With orange lamps and copper tones
We are clinging to the night of owls and swept up leaves
Picked up on gusts

Rain like billowing smoke makes sheep drip silver droplets off blue stained backs
Sodden wool like wet carpets not yet woven on the loom

The nant gushes and thunders its headlong dash to the sea
Here we take stock
And wait for answers from the gloom.



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