Untitled, on the subject of the wild autumn wind.

The clouds are shifting, purposeful,

Moved by the chilling bidding

Of the skeltering wind.


Gust and lull and flow and wrack

And wrapping plastic rustling

As winding sinuous between stacks

Of dripping lumber without resting.


The sky lives as bottomless blue,

In sorrowful hue

To chase the running through of the colding days,

Racing ever around in a hunt for the tail of the spring,


Going down in a tramping slew

Bold to greet the Cold Solstice.



Hunting Thunderheads

What a grey day –

A grisaille of gangrenous sights,

In defiance of which

Burns a fiery, fierce internal light.

Today is a day of awful awen,

The awe-inducing inspiration.


The bitter, garrulous gulls

Shriek and circle and sound;

A howling halo, a death nimbus,

‘Bout my doom-wrapped darkened figure

And sombre footsteps on the ground.


No greetings for or from the fellow-strider,

We are hunched and hooded

In pessimistic preperation

For the storm that blacks the sky –

We are harried and hunted,

Punished and poverty-stricken,

By the storm sprouting sky-scrapers

Like lightning bolts.



We haven’t yet learned

To chip our stones sharp,

To hunt the stinging thunderheads themselves.




A Brief Introduction

My name is Twm Gwynne, I’m an aspiring poet and writer, and I intend this blog to be a platform for whatever I scribble that I feel is worth sharing. My rambling often touches on nature, love, violence, rejection of civilisation and civilised values, anti-capitalism, and spirituality. I hope you find something interesting here.

Our admiration of the antique is not admiration of the old, but of the natural. — Ralph Waldo Emerson