Betws Mountain, overlooking Ammanford

Distant, dumb hills silently green their faces and smile down the valley. A sentence of silence punctuated by rosy sheep and the call of black birds. I have followed these roads more than a hundred times since I was tiny, wrapped in blankets and the worn leather of old cars. Sunday afternoons accumulate on these slopes, drift gently upwards to slowly choke the swirl of clouds. Early mornings too; Sarah driving home and shooing the sheep out of her path. Mamgu still remembers the walk back up to Blaencardunen with bread.

It all changes in the night. You can see the ‘elephant’ and ‘bell’ constellations of streetlights, orange stars set into the gentle hills of Carmel. These are teenage nights.

Betws Mountain

A thin line of birds
pencil drawn in the dawn sky,
abstracted clouds glow.

The town still sleeping
in the lee of the mountain,
grass prickles wetly.

Yellow light unfolds,
washes the slopes and the hills,
bathes them all gently.

Gorse throws spiky shapes
tumbling over sheep tracks,
dips them in shadow.

The last orange lights
wink out in the town below,
a lone bird circles.