GWYNDRE GLACIER *
* shaped by glacial action, but not a glacier
Against the paint streaked peaks an ascension of kites soaring, stalling, falling from the sky.
Sheep grazing, a languid thoroughness, cropping the green baize of the hillside,
wild Welsh mountain ponies, their tails and manes sailing on the wind.
The thrum of farm machinery in fields near and far.
The shadowline of dry stone walling a sharp melt,
on the undulating landscape a flag laid out on the contours,
a Rorschach of green and white
and me the red
Derek the Weather said there'd be snow
On higher ground Tuesday night. Rain down low.
Then cold, icy and clear on Wednesday morning
With showers by nightfall, without warning.
From the car park the peaks looked as white as the stars,
Which pinpricked the indigo from here out to Mars.
We walked up in darkness under the waning moon's stare,
The breeze light and warm, the conditions set fair.
We talked as we walked, the brothers and me,
Green fields, rolling hills, was all we could see.
From the Bwlch Duwynt saddle we saw all around
The whiteness was lunar lit frost on the ground.
It was 'One Of Those Days' with more grass than snow
But I'd carted my stuff up there and still wanted to go
Skiing on the flanks of Southern Britain's highest peaks
Who knew when it would snow next, it could be weeks.
So suited and booted, goggles on face
I pushed off from a standstill, slowly gathering pace.
The frost crystals crashing off the tails of my skis,
Grass hurtling skyward, caught on the breeze.
The hiss of the schuss like a thousand tyres deflated
Pulling up, still standing, feeling elated.
My eleventh day turning on the Brecon Beacons' peaks
Are the skis put away now for the summertime weeks?
Please click on the link to see the 'skiing' time-lapse