#welsh fantasy

'But what if I make my own mistakes,' the child objected, 'and not yours?'

I think she is often longing for the time when she was flowers on the mountain, and it is making her cruel, as the rose is growing thorns.

Blackness terrifies; it is sightlessness, it blinds a man and hides his enemies; yet the darkness within the earth is warm and life-giving, the womb of the Mother, the source of all growth. But in snow or in white-hot flame nothing can grow. Whiteness means annihilation, that end from which can come no beginning.

Soon rain began to fall; like a myriad soft tiny paws it pattered upon the parched earth, upon the dying things that had been green.

The rain washed the air clean of her words and dissolved her haunted face, broke the dark line of her into webs that left no stain.

What they said is not told either, and perhaps it is right that it is not, for those words and that hour belonged to them only, and perhaps the words would not have made sense to anybody else, anyway.