TINKINSWOOD BURIAL CHAMBER
Frost shells the pitted stone
glittering like winter stars.
The early sun warms knees
of rock, the slabs that
hold the past in place.
In spring warm rain will crack
the seeds of life: tangled
roots will grow free again.
The dying echo of long ago
alone will stay the same.
But when the year is middle-aged
balding on top and tired below
though the leaves wither and die
this echo will remain.
VALE OF GLAMORGAN
On the coast
of the Vale
it avails us not
to think a lot
about passing time.
The towering cliffs
are gracious hosts
to the fossils of species
that never failed
to endure in stone.
Ammonite spirals
no longer turn
like bicycle wheels:
the past is real.
Chains of Time were frozen
when ancient brakes applied.
The tone of eternity
is a broken drone:
our minutes, our hours
are petrified flowers
in the littoral garden
of prehistory.
They die: we harden,
embedded for certain
in mineral infinity.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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