After dark, down the steep lanes of the Great Orme –
a two mile long limestone promontory,
named by Norsemen for a dragon’s head –
past the synagogue and the funicular,
avoiding the temptations of the Pier,
into the lamp-lit, locked-down thoroughfare,
came the Kashmiri billy goats, white as snow,
as clouds, as sea spume. Runaways or outcasts
from a flock imported for their wool,
occasional mascots for the Royal Welsh,
those noisome foragers with their prophets’ beards
and trophy horns capered to the churchyard
and its privet hedges,
ECO-WARRIOR
THE BROKEN BRANCH
A CHORUS OF ZITHERS
HOME TIME
IN PRAISE OF THE WORLD WIDE WEB