Woodland in Spring by Annie Louvaine

Aber Valley

Under the hawthorn tree, white blossoms drift like snowflakes

as sunlight throws its radiance through gnarled and leafless

oak and ash and falls as a mosaic of shade and white.

Patches of bluebells catch and hold that light.

Rocks exhibit their lichens like artists in a modern gallery

and crenulated blades of ferns rise from a wet and mossy ground.

I stop and sit and listen for a while to the tinkling

of the stream, the wood warblers, the multilingual wind

the spill of the distant waterfall and think of my Nain.

She wore a soft blue cardigan, two braids curled round

upon her head, an auburn crown; she sang the Gymanfa ganu.

Then up I stand and walk again along that single path

a path that’s taken me back to the one who loved me best.