The Aztecs of Cwm Llan

 

Light is obsidian knives, the sun in splinters

on a pyramid of slate; copper

stains the scree to sunset

 

 

from some forgotten

ripping out of hearts.

 

At the ruins of the temple of the cwm

Madoc's people chat

in fluent Nahuatl.

 

Gladstone dodders on the rock, bringing

tears to the eyes of quarrymen

while everybody sings

 

and goes on singing, mouths

full of earth.