Dragons and grim angels well might soar
In this iron, rain washed sky
Might battle in the racing heavens
Lightning on Yr Wyddfa!

The wind reddens my cheeks
Sharpens my gaze, these narrow eyes
Peering into the living air-
The many strong hands take hold
That I might lean against
The force of mountain bounded gales
Into the breath of tales of old,
Brought up, leaping from the raincloaked vales
To dance with me-
Willing, yet unable
Held down and anchored to
This rock-strewn and abandoned
Mountainside.

Thunder from Annwn
Echoes in Cymru
Or so it seems,
With ancient stone
Beneath my booted feet
So it seems, that here might
Arthur truly sleep beneath,
Avatar of Albion-
Awaiting.

Others turn away
Backs to the cold wind
Hearing nothing in the
High, clear voice,
Herald of hill and sky.

But I, a fool, no doubt
And a pretentious fool
At that-
Open my coat and countenance
To feel the harshness of its touch,
Attempting to embrace

Hilltop and hillside,
The rushing, tumultuous
Passage of the thundercloud,
The heaviness of the rain
A robe about the shoulders
Of stern mountains,
Enveiling green slopes
That often rest,
Gold-washed
By western sunlight,
Beneath ever-moving skies-
Oh!

All this is lifted, held within
The wildness of the rising wind,
Bringing my eyes to tears
And my heart to song.

And
Thunder from Annwn
Echoes in Cymru,

Or so it seems in Albion.