The slow slow flow
of the Afon Lwyd
With it's fragrance from
rain soaked azalea.

A clap of thunder
rolls across the Mynyd Maen
then rests up on its tremulous tip.

And there where the scent
from my life's earth breath
leaves me before warm storms
rain forces my eyes closed.

For I am not Obed-Edom
and I find no favour
from touching
the Ark of God.