I make myself get out of bed, throw on yesterday's creased clothes, sit beside the open window watching commuters run down the hill for the 7.16. I drink two cups of tea, turn away from the colourful fruits uneaten in my bowl and drag my reluctant pen across the pages of my journal like a lost soul relying on the comfort of a confessional.
When I stop writing, when my pen pauses, when the erratic scratching and catching of nib on paper stops as I turn a page, I realize that my ears are straining to hear a voice in the silence. I am listening out for a relentless song whose lilt changes according to the moods of the sky in the next valley.
I want to be lost in the riotous roar of your voices as you tumble down the gorge. I want to listen to the subtle changes I hear in your sound when I move my head closer to the blue grey rock face.
I miss the cooling fresh air you push into the room, the gasp I take when I unlock the back door and you flood into the house and fill it with your presence, the clear air you bring down from the mountain tops.
The back of my throat is gasping for an iced shot of you. I need a shock of you splashed onto my tearful eyes. My voice lusts after your clarity. My bones crave your minerals. I want to cool my tired feet in your shallows, swim with teeth chattering along your shadowy banks. I want you to shine my hair again with a silky mirror touch that I've known since childhood.
I miss seeing you from every room in the house, from my first waking moment until I go to sleep by the window under the eaves. I miss stealing a glimpse of you when I sleepily raise the curtain and watch you passing by in the thin moonlight. From the garden, the street, from the bridge in the village and looking down from the purple hills, the lifeline of you is constantly cutting a white path down from the highest mountains.
Afon Glaslyn, I am missing your company, simply being there beside you. I am waiting for the weather to change in my heart.