Upon receiving good news

Push through the gate

that hissed through its teeth at you

to turn back,

damming rivulets of paths

that are your birth right.

*

Bronzing mushrooms

chuckle as you pass;

twigs,

dried, collected, yellowing

like bones, crunch under your feet,

whilst the trees

maintain a lusty languor,

residing and bathing

in fresh dew.

*

Touch the bluestones

where lichen blossoms,

crafting a moonscape;

cradling moss

caress their rocks with fecundity:

ancient rotting restless renewing love.

*

Paw at the listening silence,

corpulent,

penetrated only by

the gentle coo

of two unseen birds

in soft dialogue.

*

I pause, standing still.

I lick the salt from my upper lip:

it tastes like my name;

it tastes like victory.

Photograph of Tŷ Canol wood taken by Colin Harper