once i did
winter lanes
there is no one about
some snow about
but no one about
a few holly berries
by the rusted shed
all corrugated away
left a lane to the cefn
on and to the right winchen
and the half way inn
wrought wrought
the crows busily lifting off a field
of nothing clacking particular
away down the slope grasses flow
to crymlyn bog’s quake
the waterbed under your feet
no one about
to turn back home
in the snow
you know there is no one about
i told you how the lanes
meander down the time
i did i tell you
i did
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