the turning point

slowly we left the valley of Betws-y-Coed,
all greens, bright and somber

soaring trees of magnificent splendor,
gently climbing, rain-cleansed

ever hopeful of better things,
we arrived at Cape Curig, the turning point

Capel Curig: lonely but not lonely,
cold and castaway,
but home to weary limbs—
end of the road to some,
beginning of the road for us

turning the corner to another world,
an all-encompassing windscreen vista
of breathtaking, rain-swept mountains,
starkly gleaming in the pouring rain—
a thousand flashes of whitened torrents
spilling down the mountainside

going where?

this land of running water,
the thundering music of the mountains—
Pier Gynt personified
in a Welsh landscape of supreme beauty

clouds billowed,
revealing a snow-capped peak:
snowed on Snowdon

gleams of ice-rimmed rocks,
black on brown, white on gray
gray on brown, black on white—
an ever-changing world of color and sense

a lake intruded—
black water of styx-like memory

metamorphic rocks straddled the mountainside;
historic beauty that conjured up deep Celtic feelings
of past sedimentary changes.

eagles soared in glorious freedom,
though savage at the end—
a payment for this hurting beauty

another day, another passing

—bob ellis

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