So what is truth and what is not?
In words, the evidence of loss,
Of spirits swirling round the peak:
The nameless souls who named the hills.
I heard the songs, I saw the dance,
I felt the heartbeat in the rock,
I saw the springs of pasts converge,
I formed Brythonic words again.
This place – where lapwings guard the skies,
And ravens roll about their throne –
Has stripped my language from its roots:
My English never climbed this far.
Relentless winds have scarred its name,
Across the passing clouds of time.