The Birmingham fortnight.





The rabbit went to the crack house over the road,
it could do with a change.

We ended up in Llangollen,
the castle was still there
and it could be 1958,
except for the cars
and windows of double glazing,
I’d forgotten people could be nice,
Lisa went to look for some sugar mice,
the bog cost 20p,
but oh the joy of a clean roller towel.


The gale of the dragon,
hit us as a wet wind,
of can we hold the tent down,
Quakers aren’t wimps.
Abersoch the usual porcupine,
English upper middle,
keeping Brown’s lane in business,
still the sheep from 1963 are still there
and I didn’t frighten them,
not knowing the Welsh for mint sauce.

Ale as brown pop in the Sun Inn,
someone should torch it,
for something to do,
Baaaaaaa.

They buried Henry in the sunshine,
Carol Anne walked backwards,
what was it?
kindness, love and a good life.

That you had seen enough of death
and cherished the life of it all,
the apple blossom will come again,
in the spring,
we do remember them.

Thanks for the nobility that no king or prince can buy,
keep right on to the end of the road, KBO and bar,
that’s the way to be loved by time,
I’m glad your daughter came home at last.

One more coal on the fire,
tomorrow it’s RS Thomas
and a pint on the beach at Porthdinllaen.
　
Refreshed as the rain,
deep sleep healing again,
a dawn of dew and light,
young kitten ready for the fight,
as swallow down and golden crown,
the hireling shepherd in a four by four,
conquering the Tor.

A maiden as Saxon as she is Welsh,
her hair a flaxen rope of yarn on the boat of life,
come Wales and your wishing wife,
such is love.

He is gone now Tide Moy,
the sun is still here,
listening to the children,
wondering what place for bards,
playing dominoes and cards,
the ace of hearts and a double six.

Picking up shore sticks,
all the work of the line,
sail washing and a ball of twine,
the polished brass shells on the mantelpiece are gone,
all that is left is the green and gold of the scallop necklace.

A rarebit and a Victoria sponge,
taking the plunge,
walking on the sea,
eternal ice cream for tea,
Bardsy island
and all the flutter byes
are heading for the purple buddleia.

The door in the wardrobe opens up to the sea garden,
gentle conversation about cufflinks and jellyfish,
one of those days you sign on all year for,
fresh crab meat,
under a fellowship of sandy ice cream and ale,
it will be the first coastal village to flood,
when the sea is full of iPods and Mercedes
and gifts from the pound shop,
a tide of plastic,
when the pin number is no longer recognized.

Who will be the princess who saves us?
Dewi Sant,
the cause of little things.

The gaffer apologizes for speaking Welsh in the Prince of Wales,
beautiful girls gather as abundance,
as a seagull slope soars round the castle,
that fell to the battle of brothers.


For all the wild flowers are in the book
and the gannet is unharmed.

A gas lamp,
an elsan can,
fetching the water from the clear stream
and reading two years before the mast,
then running rings around the hollowed out sea mine,
before the old sailor,
watches the first luxury,
of a cold coke in a bottle with a straw,
a warm coal fire
and all the love of Wales,
we will come again if allowed,
diolch.

~