Slide 2:
On a clear day he’d bring him here, his young son, charging the hill as wild as the long-maned ponies who’d watch a moment before dropping their heads to graze again.
Slide 3:
he’d crouch so their eyes were level one hand at the small of his back the other tracing the horizon, pointing out all the places lived in
by the fathers and sons before them: Tretower Raglan Bredwardine And what he meant by this but never said, was ‘Look. Look over this land and see how long
the line is before you - When he finally got him still
Slide 4:
how in these generations we’re no more than scattered grains; that from here in this view, 9, 19 or 90 years
are much the same; that it isn’t the number of steps
that will matter, but the depth of their impression’ And that’s why he’s come back again, to tip these ashes onto the tongue of the wind and watch them spindrift into the night Not just to make the circle complete, to heal or mend, but because he knows these walls sunk however low
still hold him in as well as out:
protect as much as they defend
Slide 5:
From Skirrid Hill
Owen Sheers
Read by Owen Sheers
Published by seren and The Wordsworth Trust © 2005 Flash animation by WordPowered
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