The button on my collar is undone,
as it must have been the day
the news blew in from the east,
riding the breeze like a flock
of glistening birds, songs
burnt into their throats.
We remembered Wales, remembered
our memories of Wales, turned west,
over wet meadows, steep and green,
the old stone trough, the mountain top
dank with cloud.
We imagined rainfall, lambs,
granite. We imagined the cull,
the white jostling heads, the small
mouthfuls of grass ticking inside.