The Stunning Welsh Valley

The Stunning Welsh Valley

We stopped the car,

looked down into the Welsh valley below.

Sheep grazing, the farmhouse.

I thought, what a picture of art.

But no gallery owns this.

No frame hangs it proud in a hall.

It lives in the hush of a Tuesday,

where mist clings soft to the hill.

The roof slates gleamed like wet stone,

and somewhere a dog gave a bark,

not loud, not fierce,

just enough to say, this is my home.

I didn’t speak. Neither did you.

What could words have added?

The valley had its say already,

and we let it.

We didn’t move for a while.

Even the engine seemed to know

this wasn’t the moment for motion,

only breath and belonging.

A crow crossed the sky without hurry.

The sheep paid us no mind.

A clothesline danced by the barn,

its colours muted by cloud.

You reached for my hand but didn’t take it.

Just let it rest near mine,

like two thoughts laid side by side,

needing nothing to be understood.

I wanted to keep it,

that exact slant of light,

that hush before weather decides

whether to clear or to cry.

But we couldn’t stay.

You turned the key and the car sighed.

The road ahead waited, indifferent,

but the valley had left its mark

it was much more than stunning ❤️