The clouds came from the west
war banners flapping, sheets in the wind.
The air full of portent,
tender young oaks chattered in their tubes
birches rattled limbs.
Spruces round the old quarry twll clenched their wide roots
in soil shelved thinly on slate.
The wind sent some of last Autumns leaves as flyers
"keep down and nobody will get hurt!"
A detatchment of hail rode shotgun
to make sure all was above board.
If there had been a shepherd at Blaen Pennant
he'd have got his flock in quick.
But the windows there were wind holes, purged of people.
Trum-y-Dysgyl ripped the advance guard to shreds
so the clouds gathered darker
a mile above
and fell, frayed on the sleeve of a low front
into the cwm.
A joint operation, wind and clouds took control.
Hebog was gagged, walls running into grey.
There were no landmarks now.
full of black notes and the wind's chaos.
Birds flattened against rock, or deep within hawthorn and birch.
A fox shivered inside the opencut above Hendre Ddu.
Sheep rolled about like stones on the moor.
Welsh Blacks above Tyddyn Mawr
swayed a twenty ton scrum against a wall, eyes wide,
lowing in the wind's wild jabber.
The oaks fought a shrewd battle, letting branches go
let the wind think there was damage,
among the torture of twisting limbs.
But this was the night that the ash trees gave up,
not that any blamed them; their raddled trunks sundered
lying along the no-mans land
in the sad, damp pasture.
We woke up next morning to the loss of their familiar outline.
Gorse was ripped from the ground
"no quarter given, none asked".
The spruce trees fell slowly, at the last,
when things seemed over.
The wind was tired, but mustered one last tour of the scene
offed a few by the road at Garndolbenmaen.
Sent three down into the twll and four more over the road,
where the farmer,
half asleep, ran into one, cursing.
As the first soft drops of mournful rain fell at dawn
the hawthorns gripped
tightly and decided to go on doing so,
for as long as it took.
Copyright Iain Robinson 2018
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