In the dark of the night before the moon rose they went down the worn road
it showed white, faint in the darkness
and the dogs, before and behind, were momentary shadows on the darkness.
Turn at the groeslon and up through the stark silent village
(cold even now the warm night time, stark cold in its lines)
delicately walking but their iron heels clattered and the iron gate clashed by the chapel
a dog – but the dogs knew them.
Now steep climbing the ancient road, loose shale and rocks up through the dwarf oak and the hazels
up and to the smooth turf on the ridge
warm and the smooth turf. No wind.
On the far left the vague plain of the distant sea
and on the right the stab of Cnicht
a thin dark dagger lance triangle stabbing the darker sky
before, a nothing, an obscurity
and in it Snowdon. Long miles between, and the road’s long twisting.
Not midnight yet.
Down; the rock Ben-gam, and there
the standing pools of mist
sweet-gale, and the moving of a bird
the drifting scent of sweet-gale
and below, still there below
Cae Ddafydd, and the hurring
half-heard gentle fern-owl
nightjar hurring through and through
the honied warmth and dark caressing night.