The Brooding Beacons

Above, beyond the swirling car park
before the modern supermarket,
its marching trolleys purchase laden –

above, beyond the bypass traffic
that metals by the small bus station,
that halts, light ordered, at the junctions –

above, beyond the rooves of buildings
around St. Mary’s tower as gathered,
important halls and narrow alleys –

above, beyond the river valley
where moody Usk flows, silent, hidden,
and through old Brecon’s world meanders –

above, beyond each passing era
of human tears and exultations,
together loved, together lonely –

above, beyond, at patient distance,
like ancient parents, still and watching,
the brooding heights of Brecon’s Beacons,

whose moorland summits moan of stillness,
of timeless life where lies our fullness.