Read by David Mildon
The moon plays moth-like on the water. Three peaks on three sides hold the lake, high above the distant sea. It is quiet, bottomless and black. It is dark. At the unsheltered edge the water spills gently down through the sedges. It gathers between the folds of the mountain and begins to move towards the trees. It falls under and between them and when it beats against the rocks, the moon is there with it. It races downwards past the Williams farm, the Davies farm, past Yr Hafod until it reaches the village where it grumbles under the old bridge and away.