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.