In The Poetry

This poem is set in the Lake District, which is in the north-west of England, where the hills are called ‘fells’, and it was written in memory of Dr Robert Woof, the director of the Wordsworth Trust.

The Light Fell

The weather was confused all day
so who can say why it was just then
the light fell that [...]

The Farrier

Blessing himself with his apron,
the leather black and tan of a rain-beaten bay,
he pinches a roll-up to his lips and waits

for the mare to be led from the field to the yard,
the smoke slow-turning from his mouth
and the wind twisting his sideburns in its fingers.

She smells him as he passes, woodbine, metal and hoof,
careful [...]

The Hill Fort
(Y Gaer)

On a clear day he’d bring him here,
his young son, charging the hill
as wild as the long-maned ponies

who’d watch a moment
before dropping their heads to graze again.
When he finally got him still

he’d crouch so their eyes were level,
one hand at the small of his back
the other tracing the horizon,

pointing out all the [...]

The Farrier

Blessing himself with his apron,
the leather black and tan of a rain-beaten bay,
he pinches a roll-up to his lips and waits

for the mare to be led from the field to the yard,
the smoke slow-turning from his mouth
and the wind twisting his sideburns in its fingers.

She smells him as he passes, woodbine, metal and hoof,
careful [...]

I wrote this next poem, ‘Mametz Wood’, when I went to the Somme battlefield to make a short film about two Welsh writers who had fought at this place. The two writers were called David Jones and Wyn Griffith, and they wrote very very different accounts of this dreadful battle, but it was a [...]

Not Yet My Mother

Yesterday I found a photo
of you at seventeen,
holding a horse and smiling,
not yet my mother.

The tight riding hat hid your hair,
and your legs were still the long shins of a boy’s.
You held the horse by the halter,
your hand a fist under its huge jaw.

The blown trees were still in the background
and the [...]

This poem is set in the Lake District, which is in the north-west of England, where the hills are called ‘fells’, and it was written in memory of Dr Robert Woof, the director of the Wordsworth Trust.

The Light Fell

The weather was confused all day
so who can say why it was just then
the light fell that [...]