I found this poem from the Gwrando ar y Dwr project and forgot how much I liked it:
I do not write. I do not know the narratives and language of those who trod these forgotten footsteps. Ancient lands, yr hen gymraeg. My ancestors trod these paths carving through the landscape, at one with glacial paths and the forbidden echoes.
I am merely the flow of data that ebbs and tides beneath the open space and analogue skies. Blinding though this light, beaming through the falling leaves. The noise of crunching beneath me.
Under the heavens, I am on this path and it like me is open.
The scent of damp peaty moss engulfs me.
Quartz boulders glistens beside me,
a stone that is an elemental transmitter,
now found in microphones.
Maybe these ancients were resonating and amplifying frequencies, memories and dreams
– Things forgotten, only beyond the minds eye now perceived.
Gwynt traed y meirw, mae hi’n gafael.
The breeze blows through my mind,
cleansing my being and am I purified by salty tasting air of sea breeze.
Orange was the sky,
but there are no delicate perfumed blossoms here,
just soggy foot etchings left behind.
I wish I spoke as eloquently as these tangibles are,
but these are what I leave instead.
I wish for wells,
I wish for sunsets and hope on discovery,
I find myself
Lost in thought, found in landscape.