Dic Aberdaron

Telling us so much
it so much the more
withholds. Who was he?
The clothes a labourer's

clothes: coarse trousers, torn
jacket, a mole-skin
cap. But that volume
under the arm---a

hedge-poet, a scholar
by rushlight? We look
closer: no soil in
that eye, but light

generated by a
mind charging self
at its own sources.
Radiant soul, shrugging

the type's ignorance
off, he hastens towards
us, to the future
we inhabit and must

welcome him to, but
nervously, all too
aware of the discrepancy
with his expectations.