Breton lay cold on the day of my visit.
Crystal clear rock of an icicle stream lit.
With many a tumble of trembling water.
The fluid runs clearer the grasslands lie shorter.
Pine trees regimental in furrow streaked rows.
Broken as ruddy as picker marked crows.
Streams of the frost coloured acid bit air.
Circle the mountains of granite hewn flare.
The buttercup yellow of sunlit embrace.
Shadows this all with far summer wrong face.
And woodpecker silent in billowing flight.
Gives movement to harsh woven Welsh highlands sight.
