Tan-y-Garth
by David Whyte
This grass-grown hill's a patchwork lined with walls
I've grown to love. Four hundred years at least the
hill farm's clung tenacious to the weathered slope,
over the Ogwen and the green depths of Mon.
The eye has weathered also, into the grey rocks
and the fields bright with spring, the wind blown light
from the mountain, filling the valley,
the low backed sheep following the fence,
hemmed by dogs and John's crooked staff, the still valley
filled with his shouts and the mewling of sheep pressed
through the gate. Beneath Yr Elen, the bowl of Llafer's
stirred with mist, the dogs lie low in the tufted grass and
watch with pure intent, the ragged back of the last sheep
entering the stone-bound pen. The rough ground of Wales
lives in the mind for years, springing moor grass under
feet treading concrete, hundreds of miles from home,
and the ground has names, songs full of grief, sounds
that belong to a single stream, Caseg's the place of the mare,
Cwm Llafer's the valley of speech, utterance of wind,
Fryddlas the blue moorland filled by the sky. The farm
passed down but never possessed lives father to son,
life after life, feeding the sheep with grass,
the people with sheep and memory with years
lived looking at mountains. One single glance of a hillside
darkened by cloud is enough to sense the world it breathes
and this world needs all the breath we have
Carnedd Llewellyn, Carnedd Dafydd, Garnedd Uchaf, all the
Carneddau, Yr Elen of the shining light, Drosgl the endless
ridge curving to nothing. One man I know loved this place so
much he said he'd found his place to die. Years I knew him
here, walking the high moor lines or watching the coals
of a winter fire in the cottage grate. And die he did, but not
before one month's final joy in wild creation gave him that
full sight he'd glimpsed in Blake, he too struggled with his angel,
in and out of hospital, the white sheets and clouds unfolded
to the mountain's bracing sense of space, now he was ready,
his heart so long at the edge of the nest shook its
wings and flew into the hills he loved. Became the hills
he loved. Walked with an easy rest cradled by the faith he
nursed for years in doubt. His ashes are scattered over by
Aber, the water continually saying his name, as I still go
home to Tan-y-Garth speaking the names of those I know.This poem, of which there are a couple different iterations published by David, has the line, “one single glance of a hillside / darkened by cloud is enough to sense the world it breathes / and this world needs all the breath we have” is one of my favorite lines because it speaks to me of vow and commitment. And I’ve actually walked up to the land, witnessed the farm in Snowdonia surrounded by mountains, the ridges curving around the green land. I loved this piece of land in Wales which is as much mythic to me as anything else, and I love this poem because I love the litany and invocation of landscape.
