A poet's holiday.



A long trip, over rain soaked mountains,
tom, tom,
until the power runs out,
as a cot falling from the bough.

We got a new charge lead,
from Bargain Basement,
he was waiting for the holiday rush,
to tide him over the long Welsh winters,
of Pwellhi.

A long poet sang psalms here,
the geese still guarding the village of Llanengan,
rainwater in the ash tray of the Sun Inn,
after the lock in gin,
the sky pink with a palette knife of July blue.

You can hear your thoughts,
as well as the swallows,
swift children as Amazon as,
buying a computer game online,
the clatter of plates and knives and forks,
squeaky cleaned for another sitting.

The sheep cry,
in a universal language,
that only the sun knows from its blessings.

It is good to be home in Wales,
a keen sense that it is
and always will be.

Making sure the hedge sparrows were fed,
warm camp fire bed,
this is where dragons go on holiday,
are most welcome,
amongst and between the Rivals.

Al Gore says the Americans are going carbon neutral,
something to unite us,
as fear of war,
the ice bergs shiver with delight,
star ships will be going to Mars.

I put a Wal-Mart log on,
the warm quiet barbecue,
it burns for an hour,
as a flickering artificial red light,
on a three bar electric fire,
in a concrete tower of poverty.

They are thinking of giving The Thatcher,
a state funeral.

A bent social plonker,
cons my disabled friend dying in agony,
to sign over the disposal,
of her earthly remains.

She turned up at the funeral,
having given the social cheque,
to her mate that made dodgy coffins,
pocketed the difference.

I made the words up to the hymns,
frightened the priest with his green stained long johns,
my mate played Handel on the organ.

The burners kindly told me,
they had left my lone dog rose on the casket,
being in love with poetry and hope.

Now that's a funeral on the state.


Some one should remember,
the soldiers they forgot and the coming storm,
back to chucking rocks at the rich,
reasons to be cheerful part 1.

The swallows and the swifts,
the wine and the gifts,
dip your toe into the sea,
work does not make you free.

Something to do in July,
learn to fly in your head,
bake some hot crusty bread.

Taking some stones from the beach,
a bucket and spade sandcastle,
an unexpected parcel.

I once went to a folk festival,
where no one danced,
that is the way it is now,
praising the homeless,
we wait for change.


Tomorrow we go back to the city,
having marvelled at the flight of seagulls.

~