I climb great Moelfre, the old Broad Hill
and pass that house they called Golgotha,
the place of skulls abandoned
in some migration mania of centuries gone by.

A blasted house, skull pan of roof blown away,
windows out to make those hollow sockets
where the wind goes through
and up beyond those last and sheltered walls,
where only wire trawls the wind,
sets net and barbs to hold the shot dog flung across,
makes catch and food for flights of crows
who rise and curse my coming to their feast.

That last trek was trial indeed.
Why take a sullen soul up there for solace?
Ruts in the track were rivers which would sweep me down,
knuckles of rain in my face forced humble genuflection
to the wind and storm.

A Bronze Age cairn upon the crown.
That place of dead with wet grey stones,                                            
its white crystal blocks
where grinning teeth ****** out of mud.
Its entombed death more permanent than life,
but yet, I felt that wind and rain, my heart was pumping,
my face was raw, my shoes were soaked,
I had a thousand feet of earth beneath my feet and I knew it!
I was still here!!