Mountain stream

Nant y mynydd in Welsh and the title of the poem of which the final verse was the one inscribed upon the rock in my blip of last week. I was grateful to Chaiselongue for identifying the poem by John "Ceiriog" Hughes and am now further indebted to MariaInWales for providing a translation of the whole poem which goes like this

Mountain stream, fresh and sparkling
Twisting and turning toward the hollow
Between the whispering-singing rushes
O that I were like the stream!

The mountain heather in flower
Looking upon it brings hiraeth [longing]
To be able to stay on the mountain
In the breeze with the heather.

Little birds of the high mountain
Rising in the clean, fresh air
From one peak to another they fly
O that I were like a little bird!

I too am a son of the mountain
Away from home making a song
But my heart is on the mountain
With the heather and the little birds.

She explained that the poet wrote this when he was working in Manchester but yearning for his native Ceiriog valley whence he took his Bardic name. The young local man who inscribed the verse upon the mountain boulder in my blip never did leave home as a result of his catastrophic breakdown, but neither was he able to fly free like the birds.

This stream is really just a rill that runs through the fields down to the sea not far from where I live. It's standing in for a mountain stream so there's no heather here, just primroses growing alongside and fallen blackthorn petals drifting on the water. Birds were singing and that reminded me of something I read this morning, about the surprising uses for bird song. It appears to have the quality of both calming and invigorating people in situations which can be stressful or dispiriting. You can listen to Birdsong Radio here if you want to give it a go.