I sit at Moel Arthurís summit, sun-drenched,
a perfect spot, smaller yet shapelier
than nearby Mother Mountain, Moel Famau;
happy with my lot but tired among harsh
heather; I taste bilberry, breathe wild thyme
while Snowden far away floats mistily.
Iron Age women-folk children busy on the hill
pick herbs, fruit, dig roots, gather kindling, cook,
scrape skins outside their homes, while
in the woods below logs, lodge-poles are hewn,
hauled uphill by short brawny men, dragged inside
their ditched defences where I sit alone in silence,
save for the hum of a single bumble-bee
and high above a circling buzzardís yelp.