Snowdonia kettles.

There’s smoke in the out house

but no dragons to drink with

The flamed heather that Heats it 

the hazel that was weaved to fan.
Copper kettles thaw Iced rivers 

that flow into barrels 

that are emptied in late hours 

And how will you bequeath blame 

for sore heads and tails then.
Scrapped cans and nineteen fifty little fibs 

scary cats and cawing crows 

scattering the empty slag heaped vales.

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