Deep within the shadow crags
of sky piercing peaks
half-climbed in a daydream,
we traverse the valley
to sweet Beddgelert,
velvet and guttural like
damp moss on the bones
of the Fairy Glen.
We rest between
snow-veined trees,
mesmerised by sighing
lullabies of Llugwy.
Flawless coats of snow
tempt with freshness
the fleeting satisfaction
of footprints,
and thus you left yours
where I had barely tiptoed.
In that sweet moment we
couldn’t see the sludge,
but eventually the
reverie dissipated in
an echoing crescendo
of hunting horns.
The hound, seeking
praise for pure deeds found
eternal sleep in
hilt-deep betrayal.
I waver and wail. Tears
speckle white lichen on
crumbling rock; the humble
mound of a grave marker.
Blood drops bloom,
shining through the snow.
They flower in the footprints,
but can’t remove the boot.
