She calls from the cwtsh, calls the cattle home
across salt-sweet grass, over rock and herb,
to the seven springs of Ffynnon Clûn.
She calls from the cwtsh, calls the children home
from the storyteller’s van, upstream through dreams and daring,
to the seven springs of haven heart.
Into the cwtsh, where broad flanks grow,
where dust and the rust of broken scythe and dark weeds grow
and ivy creeps within.
Into the cwtsh, where wood once grown makes good,
dovetailed, pegged and waxed, where fell trunks lay.
And restlessness creeps within.
High above harbour’s arms she calls, through slow seasons of certainties,
into the cwtsh where wind-whispering night draws white milk from the mystery of beasts
and close mice flinch in sleep.
High above harbour’s arms she calls, through bewilderment, unravelling,
where siren springs sing ‘come away’,
and the world’s lantern sweeps their startled eyes.
She calls from the cwtsh, calls the beasts
who know a little, of dawn and dewfall,
the green moisture of cud and the voice calling.
She calls from the cwtsh, calls the children,
who know only the moon and stars and the far horizon,
remembering once the echo of a song.
And along the flower flamed hedgerows the cattle tread.
Angela McAllister