A natural man trap, it haunts my dreams. These few square miles in the lap of Cadair Idris – the mountain of the Giant Idris. Ankle breaking rocks and holes lie in wait under the deep heather. Boots fill with bog water. Even the sheep avoid this place. Why I am drawn to it I do not know. Within an hour it has taken my camera and broken my walking stick.
But somewhere in the middle, hidden among white crags, I stumble upon a tarn. It is fringed with reeds, and pond skaters sport on its surface. My watch stops at ten minutes past three. I don’t know how long I sit there. Waiting.
But still
the bog cotton
ripples in the wind
by Ken Jones
Aberystwyth, Wales
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