Silk of midnight cloud,
the tender reminder of an endless
June evening.
It is a lazy dark tonight, the moon
a pearl earring snagged on the penumbra
of Tryfan. The model village is dozing,
Then, a siren like a baby’s tired cry,
and helicopter flit as jarred insects.
Houses light up. The fire
is young but the windless night
shoulders the crackling.
The coil of flame drips down
the Conwy Valley and orange slick
snarls wider. Mist is choked
in a panic of smoke, the coolness
charged by risk. The tear
in the cloak of the mountain
is a sick loop through to the core
of centuries. It is midnight, the fire
grows like a rumour.
glynfedwards 