Breuddwyd Macsen Wledic
Down the long shaft of the cairn
Macsen rides, out of his titles
and sunlight, grey as the stopped air.
It takes him a thousand years. And he,
feeling the still-warm bones
slip through his hands turns
to see the sun reaching
its noonday fingers to hold
his skin in its rags, a nothing.
Soon he must ride back. Out
of the otherworld's dark he moves,
fumbling; and the land changes.