I thought I could see the same trees
From my window.
The window was an outlet and glassy,
Where the cooing was a cuckoo was an owl.
[gentle breathing sounds]
They weren’t.
I sigh
Back to
[wyt ti’n siarad Cymraeg?]
Echoes creased like cats’ ears
Of waiting by the gate
Spittle blown bubbles
The reverend round O my lips,
Breathing level to the latch.
I loved those elms.
What’s that feeling,
Fictive winged thing
Alighting on my chest,
Not relating to or consisting of but while
Coruscations trace
The skin’s cross-hatches?
[were they elms?]
The poetry in sound,
And so, imago:
Tongues,
Tween teeth,
Frictive hints
Of the most sighing colours
Blocking the air,
Shan’t be (dynani ni) done.
Osian Williams
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