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Trusted with the farmer’s new ponies ungroomed, half-broken my brother and I trembled at their white eyes rolling as the heavy slap of saddle and clink of bridle sealed our fate.
Bareheaded only the whack of a leaf-stripped fern for mastery we were released from the farmyard clattering on stony lanes up through the pine forest to a long range on the mountain top.
There, in a wind-whipped frenzy the roan and the grey sidestepped and pranced till we gave rein and raced for miles on that boundless horizon of grass and sky hooves thundering, rhythmic, concentrated legs invisible, stretching into flight wild and free above valley and pit might, mane, and tail disappearing like a meteor over Rhondda.
They told me I must say goodbye. His birth was long and I was torn but I still sing his lullaby.
He did not breathe. He did not cry. I held him close to keep him warm. They told me I must say goodbye.
Above white masks, they glanced awry. In vain, I breathed into his form but still I sang him lullaby.
They gave no answer to my, Why. The guilt was theirs who would not mourn and told me I must say goodbye.
You must forgive, they seemed to sigh. My heart was with the hushed new-born I rocked in tender lullaby.
Now every May when swallows fly white blossoms spread among the thorn. They told me I must say goodbye but I still sing his lullaby.
So after all these years you’re set to wed and April is the perfect month to choose when colours waver between blue and red.
A lady so determined not to lose could opt for flowers to match a purple gown and devastate the nation on the News.
I do not see you veiled but with a crown of Hellebore and swaying Lupin plumes. Snakeshead Fritillary bells hang down
from your bouquet of Rhododendron blooms. A Belladonna garter round your limb would test the agile fingers of your groom
when you draw the deadly shades around and grin tonight as you slither into bed with him.
They were getting older his memory was failing she was sometimes lost for words but still they played the game of Scrabble.
Stiff backed and eager they walked together clutching carrier bags and made determined raids on the common to pick fruit for home-made wine and jam.
From the first ephemeral elderflower to the warlike barricades of bramble they foraged until wine bubbled in the demijohns and jam set slow for mealtimes sweet as honey.
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