This afternoon we drive between a land of old places and our city by the sea. Pass through Y Drenewydd, where a woman died by fire a night ago while we were drinking. I know this because I am addicted to transmissions of the news early morning Radio Four. And as the journey wearies on rain blinds our hopes of viewing beauty from the car. There is mist and water in the fields, flooded pastures and country houses hide from our stares behind suspended water droplets. And as the light fails us past Llandovery, sleep looms for some passengers. Yet I look for communion with the trees while nobody speaks and the downpour continues. But then, in the turn of a bend, all changes, my mind transposes into a new zone: So I freshly scrutinise the world by the window to suddenly notice gloomy beauty – three windturbines on the low sky are backlit by sunset. Like crosses erected for death in a line on the ridge of a nameless empty hill. And they look to me like the dying of my god. And they speak to me with greater authority even than radio waves.