At Carn Bugail, Gelligaer
I wasn’t sent to invigilate the crossings of the dead;
Whether they ascend to dappled grounds or
Make whoopee in invisible forms right before our eyes
Is immaterial. Am I called, then,
To whisper quaint panegyrics, or give wail to abandon?
It’s unclear. As I walked across Brecon
Beacons, I thought of my Welsh grandfather, now removed from this;
He wasn’t in the wind, played no part in
Administering the weather; suffice it to say no piece
Of his spirit leapt out via nature--
To dust he went, somewhat painfully, and no lilac-songs
Will help him figure more prominently
On this landscape. Today I survey Gelligaer Common,
Birthplace of my mother, burial place
Of passing Roman soldiers, and, before them, Bronze Age
Ancestors. The land does not rise up and
Speak. How much blood has seeped into its soil, it does not
Enumerate. More precise to say that
It accommodates. That after our battles, our cancers,
It does what it has always done. Thrives green.
-- Dylan Willoughby
This poem initially appeared in Green Mountains Review.