Always in that valley in Wales I hear the noiseOf waters falling.There is a clump of treesWe climbed for nuts; and high in the trees the boysLost in the rookery's criesWould cross, and branches cracking under their knees
Would break, and make in the winter wood new gaps.The leafmould covering the ground was almost black,But speckled and striped were the nuts we threw in our caps,Milked from split shells and cups,Secret as chestnuts when they are tipped from a sack,
Glossy and new.Always in that valley in WalesI hear that sound, those voices. They keep freshWhat ripens, falls, drops into darkness, fails,Gone when dawn shines on scales,And glides from village memory, slips through the mesh,
And is not, when we come again.I look:Voices are under the bridge, and that voice calls,Now late, and answers,then, as the light twigs breakBack, there is only the brookReminding the stones where, under a breath, it falls.