Iarlles y Ffynawn
 
In the bright frame of a girl’s dress
time stops. A breeze rustles the gauze
which might be a sleeve, or skirts.
 
Beyond, the landscape is very small.
Owein in his tiny, archaic clothes
– scarlets and greens – runs over the grass
  
and beyond the high wall of the garden
a few towers stretch into a blue heaven,
their flags hardly lifting in the light airs.
  
And that is all. A dog barks and falls silent.
The girl’s dress moves careless as brushwork
and the man runs – but from what, and to what?


Breuddwyd Macsen Wledic

Down the long shaft of the cairn
Macsen rides, out of his titles
and sunlight, grey as the stopped air.
...