Today has seen the deaths of two famous Welshman; www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-36
I did not realise it would be such a frustrating task.
For a land of bards the work of their poets is very hard to find; certainly nothing by Gwyn Thomas could be had. Eventually though I found this by an Argentinian-born poet who lived in Wales; which also happens to describe this year as it is unfolding. Winter here is a spiritual thing for me; I love Winter, but the winter of the spirit is a much harsher creature.
Winter Walk by Lynette Roberts
She left the hut and the bright log fire at noon
And walked outside on crisp white winter snow
To find the iced slopes shadowed like the moon,
The wild wood desolate and bare below;
The red trees wet, adrift with icy flow,
The evergreens with glassy needled leaves;
A bloodstone veined red and white this view weaves.
But lifted off the path like crystal spheres
There lay cut prints of glinting stylized forms
Of birds not seen, large sparkling twig-like spears,
And squirrel pricks where fox's paw transforms
White single roses out of petalled storms;
While keltic scrolls transcribe where birds had been:
Then stamped in ice another track was seen.
A slight right turn of foot. She sensed him there,
Tree like with rain coat shouldered, fine large looks,
A four-armed god. From this sweet honeyed snare
She turned, upspraying, Marsh Tits, Finch, and Rooks,
Through brushwood hills, seeing by frosted brooks
His foot prints: these she retraced like a bride
With loaves and wood returned to his keen side.
Goddess watch over us all,