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  Iced rivers thaw

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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