Manscape
Fine prospects step out of the past and perplex
The artistic yet rational eye with demands
To pay history-book homage to the springtide wrecks
Of Llewelyn’s hopes at Edward’s hands
Which bloodied the hills where the tourist stands.
The walkers’ thin superiority assigned
A destiny to mountains unforeseen in lore -
That the oppression of man be out of mind,
Out of sight with map and flora,
Bleating a privileged pastoral of awe.
My spirits are oppressed by the weight of the world
As we drive, bloodless¹ and science-enchanted:
Gwynedd and Powys have their flags unfurled
To welcome us spectres at a bug-feast, decanted
At Plynlimon to sample the gases they panted.
The hills have no voice to arraign the English
Or tell how sheep farmers have fared and sweated;
But I know that they hoard bright memories and anguish
Woven from expediency and compromise, and have netted
For memory’s pocket a wealth unregretted -
While I must dig deep for a penny of value.
Leisure need not be wayward to miss
The symbolism of landscape, the dragon in you
That shapes your lair to yourself and the bliss
Of repose in four corners of legend and artifice.