WELSH SUMMER

They blow on their horns;
the valleys are full of echoes;
voices from vanished kingdoms
answer them from their recesses
in time. Here there is no sleep
for the dead; they are resurrected
to mourn. Everywhere is the sad
chorus of an old people, waking to weep.

It is the machine wins;
the land suffers the formication
of its presence. Places that would have preferred peace
have had their bowels opened; our
children paddle thoughtlessly there in the mess.