littlewhitedog.co.uk

Border Lines

• 

  Chepstow

  Do you think there's a far border town, somewhere,
  The desert's edge, last of the lands we know,
  Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,
  In which I'll find you waiting; and we'll go
  Together, hand in hand again, out there,
  Into the waste we know not, into the night?
  
  Rupert Brooke “The Wayfarers”

• 

  Red Buoy

  And I rose
  In a rainy autumn
  And walked abroad in shower of all my days
  High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
  Over the border
  And the gates
  Of the town closed as the town awoke.
  
  Dylan Thomas “Poem in October”

• 

  Kentchurch Poppy

  But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;
  The sun emerging opes an azure sky;
  A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
  And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day:
  
  
  Thomas Parnell “The Hermit”

• 

  Hay Bluff

  The roving tide, the sleeping hills,
  These are the borders of that zone
  Where they may fare as fancy wills
  Whose wisdom smiles and calls her own.
  
  
  Bliss Carman “The Vagabonds”

• 

  Bent Gate

  After tea we all strolled out into the garden and stood on the high terrace to see the eclipse. It had just begun. The shadow was slowly steadily stretching over the large bright moon and had eaten away a small piece at the lower left side.
  
  
  Francis Kilvert Tuesday July 12th 1870

• 

  Hay White Fence

  Hen Gymru fynyddig, paradwys y bardd, 
Pob dyffryn, pob clogwyn, i'm golwg sydd hardd;
  
  
  Evan James “Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau”

• 

  Hay Market

  Hay Fair and a large one. The roads thronged with men and droves of red white-faced cattle hustling and pattering to the Fair, an unusual number of men returning drunk.
  
  
  Francis Kilvert Monday April 11th 1870

• 

  Rhydspence Post Box

  ..tried to catch the 8.45 train but while Henry Dew and I were running alog the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into Hay in spite of Henry Dew’s running and hooting. So I walked home. Over the border out of England into Wales in the dark.
  
  
  Francis Kilvert Tuesday 3rd October 1873

• 

  Rhydspence Legs

  Steady yourself
  On the curve of a hill
  That pushes against you
  Dig in your heel
  And let the sky settle
  Into place about you
  
  
  Thomas A Clarke “Turning”

• 

  Brilley Croeso

  Make me content
  With some sweetness
  From Wales
  Whose nightingales
  Have no wings, -
  
  
  Edward Thomas “Wings”

• 

  Brilley Red Leaves

  The white leaves float upon the air,
  The red leaves flutter idly down,
  Some fall upon her yellow gown,
  And some upon her raven hair.
  
  
  Oscar Wilde “Le Panneau”

• 

  Brilley Green Door

  Midnight, one more night without sleepin'
  Watchin' till that mornin' comes creepin'
  Green door, what's that secret you're keepin'
  
  
  Marvin Moore “Green Door”

• 

  Crowthers Cow Parsley

  Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
  Enwrought with golden and silver light,
  The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
  Of night and light and the half-light,
  I would spread the cloths under your feet:
  
  
  William Butler Yeats “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven”

• 

  Redborough Snow Light

  She, then, like snow in a dark night,
  Fell secretly. And the world waked
  With dazzling of the drowsy eye,
  So that some muttered 'Too much light',
  And drew the curtains close.
  
  
  Thomas A Clarke “Creag Liath”

• 

  Grass Pool

  The dark hills
  Lie darker
  On water
  
  The colours
  Nourished by
  Recent rain
  
  
  Thomas A Clarke “Green”

• 

  Hergest Ridge

  Upon yonder rise there's a clump of trees –
  
Their shadows look cool and broad –
  
You can crop the grass as fast as you please,
  
 While I stretch my limbs on the sward;
  
'Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen
  
O'er the weary head, to lie
  
 On the mossy carpet of emerald green,
  
'Neath the vault of the azure sky;
  

  Walter Scott “Beneath the Greenwood Bough”

• 

  Knighton Sheep

  No habitation can be seen; but they
  Who journey tither find themselves alone
  With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
  That overhead are sailing in the sky.
  

  William Wordsworth “Michael”

• 

  Churstoke Apples

  Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
  About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
  The night above the dingle starry,
  Time let me hail and climb
  Golden in the heyday of his eyes,
  And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
  
  Dylan Thomas “Fern Hill”