Here, at Rhoscolyn.27.03 2010.

What does this Nature do,
implacably, with majesty,
drawing from us
only vengeance against nothing.
So slowly, with grace,
she folds and crumples
the crust, sets the largest things
moving in a slow waltz,
the tiniest things trickling,
full-formed,
stranger than fiction,
sweet beyond imagining.

The Buzzard brown,
planing and keeling,
keening into her lift
is true,
while F19
fighters rend the sky
with awful roaring
and firecracking,
slashing and stunning,
ghastly beyond imagining.

For all our mixing,
our fixing of fact
our fighting impatience,
our fiddling to make faster,
there is nothing,
nothing we can ever do
to surpass her,
not even by stealing her,
subduing her,
snuffing her out,
shutting down her sweet light
with hard, glaring orange.

Here, at Rhoscolyn,
the pinpoint dancing
of diamond on azure
dazzles,
drawing the pleased eye.
In a March-stiff breeze
here are hares cantering,
black-tipped tuffets
matching each other,
matchless.
In an Indian spring
sentry Stonechats
lead us on
from pillar to post.

Here at Rhoscolyn,
Hen Harriers scissor
the dun marsh.
On a still March night,
here at Rhoscolyn,
there, in Palestine,
is the Pole Star
and witness friends
winking, pausing,
breath held still
to take ours in.

Oh stars,
dear stars,
oh how you are betrayed!