You will drop down from the cottage,
past the barn, pink-fringed with foxgloves,
down through the fields, the Welsh Blacks unaware,
Cader across the Maddach rising from its bed of clouds.
On down, towards the grey-hazed oaks,
hearing the mew of buzzards mobbed by crows.
Down, down to the cool woods; bluebells
and bracken fronds brushing your legs with dew,
past old walls mottled with soft-hued lichens,
parts fallen now in drifts of willow-herb.
A sudden stomp and bound of solitary sheep.
This is the place. Go, my love, and leave me to its peace.
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