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his young son, as wild as the long- maned ponies charging the hill
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he’d crouch so their eyes were level one hand at the small of his back the other tracing the horizon, Tretower Raglan Bredwardine
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to tip these ashes onto the tongue of the wind and watch them spindrift into the night still hold him in as well as out: protect as much as they defend
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From Skirrid Hill Owen Sheers Read by Owen Sheers Published by seren and The Wordsworth Trust © 2005 Flash animation by WordPowered w ordpowered.org