Ynys Môn

“…its black feathers can so shine / as to seize my senses…/ miracles occur / If you care to call those spasmodic / tricks of radiance…/ miracles” Sylvia Plath

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I am not the man I think I am. On this wild and rocky coast i commune with my old friend, nearly four years dead by suicide. On these isles by the sea of shame mists roll in off the Irish sea. he lived in the far west, Ynys Môn learnt to speak the language of the Celts whilst reading and writing in adopted Latin “Non sumus in ullius potestate, cum mori in nostra potestate est.” (“We are not in anyone’s power, when it is in our power to die.”) I soak these shores with hardy flowers to bloom in crevices, to cling to fossil rings, I seek out vermilion skies, the lips of women, I huddle within sound of summer laughter where druid priestesses daub their menfolk with mud and woad as they, too, battle modernity in all its Roman disguises. Time distances me from rose and lily, mountain springs narrow to make her songs sweeter, her harmonies more certain to tear my heart to shreds. I sing that you may hear me clearly. Praise the lives of all the dead.

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