Ceirios. (cherries.)

 
The thrush is twitting about,
the golden sun hidden with its clout,
dreams are free by the fire,
undo the button, stroke the lyre.
 
Of to Portmeirion,
what does, does carry on,
where are the children, free as a skate?
the homeless people singing "how are you mate "?
 
I let the house butterfly out of the window,
it will come back again,
for winter is brushing its coat,
he has gone that loved poet of note.
 
Sharing your ice cream with wasps,
there be you John,
he always wanted to be a train driver,
a man in a white coat,
William Clough Ellis's short stay asylum,
none the less for it,
it is the primary colours and the view of the estuary.
 
Dave remembers the Stones in Hyde Park,
a cardboard box of dead white butterflies,
the strangulation of Percy Bysshe,
a beautiful sandcastle,
with a Welsh flag on top.
 
And death shall have no dominium,
dog walkers and school dinners,
Tories are never winners.
 
Watch my drink,
so they don't fall over,
he's called rover;
we found him as a puppy,
outside the house.
 
The Red Inn,
it's no good 'til we get a table,
sitting on the wall,
the sea barely breathing,
are you able?
the road goes on forever and ever.
 
A new lifeboat station,
when we used to hear,
the sound of maroons;
the postman, the baker
and the slate maker.
 
Cloud over the Rivals,
a warm sunny aspect,
last of the summer wine.
 
The dray man,
as rolling as he ever was,
I saw my father's Rover 90,
it was green,
that bucket and spade time,
when all was barley wine.
 
Arthur Alfred,
worked hard,
played with a straight bat,
a member of the Paris commune,
kept the faith,
could see round corners.
 
They no longer blow the head of cormorants,
still play golf though
and they don't chuck shit down a hole to the sea,
anymore.
 
Today it's Aberdaron,
at the feet of a winter shepherd of a poet,
who will live forever,
R.S.Thomas,
he made the weather.
 
Came to thank a poet,
met a Brummy gaffer,
have a laugh yea
and a scouse 1st engineer;
a few tear,
what's yours?
mine's a beer.
 
I wrote poetry in your church,
Tide we miss you,
such is love and ice cream,
the laughter of James Dean.
 
The servant who was civil,
who told the claimants,
what they could claim,
they sacked him,
in my house there are many rooms,
new sweepers, new brooms.
 
A land of stick people,
would you like a castor on that mate?
make you go faster up the hill.
 
The girl in the fairground cafe,
silently cleans the mirror,
reflecting on what was said to her that morning;
a perfect breakfast,
a lover somewhere else.
 
A buzz of expectation,
as Blodwyn breathed deeply,
dream of the heavens,
your dragon for the journey is called David,
of king Arthur and faeries,
ghosts and scaries;
one baa, two baa, three baas,
un, dau, tri,
a signal from home.
 
A rollercoaster for pensioners,
that's us lot
and when we get to the top,
she lifted her skirts
and there on her ankle bracelet,
was the jewel of Cader Idris.
 
As beautiful as a Welsh spring,
flowers in the desert,
here be poets,
giants asleep,
deep dreaming in the memory of love.

All the holiday dances done,
and so reborn back to the city on the plain,
good memories again,
merry, gentle fun.
 

 

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