Moan rumble winds across primeval rocks,
and grassland bends in eddy jitters
of skipping breeze:
meander sheep around stark moorland slopes
where, leaning, thoughts free wandering,
a poet stands
whose god, by then, was kept in lurking shades,
and priestly alb confined to cupboard
of dusty rites,
demands of village hurt or social hopes
no longer press their iron yoke
on pastor soul….
Instead an ocean depth
of Celtic mind and tongue,
by common culture hid,
he deeply seeks,
profess, redeem
that voice and song of Wales,
make Snowdon dance,
choir valleys gild….
Though he not fully master of the tongue,
was by the culture close embraced
poetic bard,
lone sound in dimmer days of cultic Wales,
except in wind-swept corners, raised
prophetic voice
from patriotic mountain, should return
the ancient language to its place
pre-eminent,
while he, in verses born in English mode,
conveyed the beauty, hope and prayer
of father-land.
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