Middle Mill, West Wales, 2016
The stream’s sound, as it ran its course, in June,
through such a draught of fresh young foliage,
seemed to be saying, urging in a bubbling whisper,
“Yes, the public, private worlds are fraught.
Yes, there is graft, there are grey manipulators
cutting to the heart of the body politic.
Yes, the hearth is full of demons.
“But we, I, my racing water, tracking from heights to sea,
those upward gulfs of green, the utterly untrimmed trees
in their hundreds, down this small valley,
we are growth, we are goodness, we can renew."