With corrections.

Is é an sruthan éadomhain a labhraíonn go dána,

his glass, now empty’s loudly ringing,

from shallow source, his water’s springing,

with fewer lines, his song would be finer.

Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh 9th January 2025

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The Stream

Pit brown, eddies like molasses

Trout, their underbellies speckled

with mottled brown marks swim

inside a subterranean world

Ceaseless the water runs

Never the same pattern

As in life the moment passes

and can never be lived again.

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version without the Welsh folklore

Under the yellow-green of sunlit beech

between banks of bluebells' hazy blue

where supple crosiers of new fern reach             

over verdant moss still damp with dew

a grassy lane runs beside the river

In the mystic quiet of a leafy dome

of grey bark ash, beech and mighty oak

a far cuckoo calls all walkers home

but we pass u...

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Under the yellow-green of sunlit beech

between banks of bluebells' hazy blue

where supple crosiers of new fern reach             

over verdant moss still damp with dew

a grassy lane runs beside the river

In the mystic quiet of a leafy dome

of grey bark ash, beech and mighty oak

a far cuckoo calls the dryads home

but we pass unseen by woodland folk

'til tylwyth teg w...

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