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…
Alit along the current air did fall, in feath’ry glide, a-whilst my coffee waits, a crow.
Little song. Short song.
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.
Now sparse the signs of entropied life sit, floating despite th’impossibility.
Creation pained; a look that’s lost, or hid…
Shape ‘n send forw’d the currents riv’ring by! With your time-warped scraps the bed doth lie suffused!
You are e’en clearer; by more stars alight.