A single soul
through shadow
mist and leaf;
a scowl wrapped close
in gray form
Watching: damp wood burst,
spitting knots;
eyeless sockets
glowering
from golden wind
Hearing: the flute of those
hollow reeds
Holding: the fire
under shadow
Wanting: a quiet laugh
between the circle
and the night;
the stories of the
chattering stones
For this he would abandon fate
and seize in hands of thorn
the wishing breath

                       Rhys Hughes
                                          Wales