Sarn Rhiw

    So we know
    she must have said something
    to him--What language,
    life? Oh, what language?

    Thousands of years later
    I inhabit a house
    whose stone is the language
    of its builders. Here

    by the sea they said little.
    But their message to the future
    was: Build well. In the fire
    of an evening I catch faces

    staring at me. In April,
    when light quickens and clouds
    thin, boneless presences
    flit through my room.

    Will they inherit me
    one day? What certainties
    have I to hand on
    like the punctuality

    with which at the moon's
    rising, the bay breaks
    into a smile as though meaning
    were not the difficulty at all?