Cylchgronau Cymru

London Welshman MONEY you'll never see, Shon- And nearly ten years from The wood you worked in Handling the milk You can live on now incomplete Washing bottles, cornering The lasting bowler and a country hope. Your picture's fixed (the moving you despise, A flicker on the mind that goes)- And still imagining begins 'Wel dyma fi ar y rhos' and Phrases following about the fields The squatter's child was favourite at the farm Old women fifty winters gone Knitting stockings For the young moormen-Ah Jack Saer with a buzz-saw now Transposed unwillingly Into an English version. Welsh flannel grows into the skin 'The countryman was bom with And the great knotting root lives on Mindless beneath and moving The meagre hill like a livewood limb Festooning Stumps of a smaller age Almost the moorwise collie coming The stones in Saron speaking Loom on the road to London. Ah, this is the place you say, This London where The workers care nothing and Curiosity is no killer Of an outside root. Remembering, I know you mean To hold your unpeopled hill And have it move The quiet of this million-mouthing house. ROLAND Mathias,