An Old Language

In every crash of the waves against the beach
he hears an ancient Celtic tongue.

The voices of sailors and fishermen,
angels and gods.

He sits, drawing,
harsh charcoal marks across the white page,
capturing the moment
as the sea meets the land
and leaves again.

"Ar lan y mor", he hears it saying,
"mae carreg wastad&;#8230;"

The pencil digs into the paper.