Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge

There are places in Wales I don’t go: reservoirs that are the subconscious of a people – R S Thomas

Cofiwch Dryweryn, that two-word protest,
white on blood-red background, landscaped in green,

Some days I must immerse myself in the waters
These days are more than others

Monday 09.06 – a sewage overflow has activated

He does not shout. He charts.
Where treaty lines once hung like old nets,
he inks the deep, the dark, the yet-unmade.

Huddled on the cat’s blanket,
hyenas crying through the night.

Scribbled notes regretting tea,

I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.

She has a way of tilting your head
as if lining up a thought.

I try
not to think
about my daughter’s
condition
when I
hug her

I tell you my heart is breaking
but the heart has four chambers
and is not shaped like a heart at all