[David Anthony]

A cry cut through the winter’s wind. “Who died?”
the student asked, his focus far away
from college friends who’d just arrived to stay.
“Poor Hywel Jones”, his grandmother replied.

The guests had read of spirits that abide
in Celtic lands - those keening wraiths who stray
when souls are crossing - and they felt the fey
forebodings carried where the cold wind cried.

Across the road a carpenter once more
bent to his task. The same old man who made
cots for the babies, built a thing to hold
no hope, no future. As his power saw
began to turn again, its cutting blade
bewailed an ending and the wind blew cold.