Cynghanedd In Blank-Verse
Th’waste rain-fall flows, fitfully free, unto sea o’er reams of language earth-born.
Th’waste rain-fall flows, fitfully free, unto sea o’er reams of language earth-born.
Flame-flick’ring fire of th’ancient dragon’s tongue callcries – Cymraeg! – o’er where the riverrun writes sediment’ry.
The dog-violet blends its colour in amongst the scattered sky, as light coursecrashes through the canopy…
Is masked th’moon’s cratered plight beyond the wisp-white atmosphere.