The monks know but they too are deaf, dead,
Dear raw mountains sitting mute
In the morning mist, whispering verses
And hissing through the tearful air
From Wales to England and back,
Whistling from past to future and back
As the river lifts up our fears and flies.


We wonder if the dark ghosts are rooks
Or ravens, crows or blackbirds
And we follow them, diminished, into the sky.