IN OTHER WORDS

Time has ridden you now
raw valleys
and look at you!

Homesick
is that the ache you nurse like a miser?
Nostalgia, in other words, leaves you
languishing in reminiscences
eyes blank, head elsewhere.

Hiraedd:
The old rhythmic pulse, born a hint
of a whisper, throbs ka-dunk, ka-dunk
in every hollow of the heart
and every beat of brain.

High here
on the wrist of the hand of Wales
my eyes, mist greased, skip the contours
of the gnarled knuckled hills
reaching southwards to the sea

Hidden
in the folds of fingers, rivers
gouge and sculpt resisting rock
to the coy and cosy valleys
home to the huddled towns

Houses
in long grey lines farrowing like piglets
against the somnolent green sow hills
and in the steep and clinging streets
not a single splutter of smoke

Rivers
wind, clean as I have never seen,
clear as the pools on the high mountain
with skinny-dipping girls as sleek as trout
and trout as plump and tasty as girls.

Voices
in concert, choirs and Sabbath chapel bells
ring, unhindered by the silent pit-wheels
and the absent march of miners
and the long-gone colliery horn.

So I must bid goodbye to you:
seek old companions, comrades of yesteryear,
who share my thoughts and know my tongue
and speak to me in other words,
and sing familiar songs.

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Hiraedd   [pron.  hee-rye-th   'th' as in 'thin'] is not directly translatable
- it's a combination of nostalgia, longing and home-sickness familiar to exiles.

Returning 'home' to Wales after many years I see many changes
- some good, some not so good ...