Wednesday, 12 July 2017



Your words inflect the corpuscles of my womb,
and lilt my tongue across the old Braille town.
Swallowing your windfall light upon my throated apple,
I gag in crying for the child's night spun down.

Leaning against your corduroy trousered tree,
bark black hair and stare, impudent in the cravat
that smoked around this pouting town of ours,
that my eyes, through your eyes see.

Your short-trousered lines go where
the people stained their walled-in times,
when Jesus wept, and the parable of the pub
sought truth beyond your death mask,
and not our lime washed rhymes.

No lie of the land to say we walked today,
where the chimney cats and skulk Sunday dogs
paused to pee into your reservoir of words.
Or the salt rimed jewels of the hunchback sea,
shining on the salt encrusted streets,
as the mist slew back into your grave,
and the lid on your sunlight closed.
Park-wise by owl light, the altar of your night.
Glorious to have been there with you today,
Swansea boys and running.
Lovely like, in it?

Diolch Dylan

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