Spring in Nant-y-Moel: A Poem for The Sprout

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Spring in Nant-y-Moel

Sitting in the back garden, washing on the line
Watching all the hang-gliders curling through the sky
Little Staffy piglet sitting by my side
Everybody knows she likes to jump and hide
She’s not herself today as this photograph will prove
Lying on her backside, malting like a prune

As I check the music on my five-year-old iPod
Flicking through the shuffle whilst hanging up my socks
I feel I’m in the mood for something rather new
But then I think why bother, who am I trying to fool?
I play a familiar song, one I’ve heard before
Where dear old Steven had grown tired of an asylum he’d seen before


Sitting on the back bench, beneath the baking sun
Coming under attack from a thousand new-born bugs
I look up at the valley, its cascading stone wall
Its harsh forbidding beauty turning over a thought
For whilst beholding this, I cannot help but think
That this is what the poets meant when they said horizons sing


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