The cry of buzzards in the sky
beaks touching, kissing in the sky
and lost to view on Moelwyn Mawr.
Two ravens on their single road
straight-flying on the straight-ruled road
and talking through a mile of air.
The brushing steady beat of wings
the pulsing on the silent air.
The scent of green.
The croziers of form; and double shouting, drunk and shouting
hoarse cuckoos playing on the Braich y Parc.
The grey sheep scatter: there the line of white
the climbing working line of hounds
intent and working through the scree
high on the shoulder of the Do’aean Fawr
They hit the drag and silent Lliwedd rings
the savage echo of a cry of hounds.