The secret is out. Your years were spawned from the cries of blackbirds -- valed along Glamorgan's coombes and dingles before the dissembling of days . . . suddenly you're hearing yourself again in the throat of a bird fluting out of a mountain ash in Glendower's country. Clean, wet notes thrown at the sun! The leaves of the trees are a tremor of glittering song: its dear cynghaneddm * runs deep, longs down the first rush of April roots -- is all the resonant Welsh within you ringing through the lush months of the youngling year. For Wales is a dazzle of dreams meshed in the wings of a new vision; Wales is a weather of words thrilled through the thrushes -- billed along blackbirds' tongues and up to the coal-dusted stars . . . You see the sound you're loving. But what life is this, willed from the lips of leaves in a wash of Welsh? Some sweet urgency storms each Celtic hush with its syllables. Your love is indigenous. But whose memories are these, welling out from the startled woods like green blessings?
* The principle governing Welsh metrics that involves an exact pattern of assonance, consonance and rhythmic devices.m