Poet

Mar 26, 2016#1

 

He'd aways wanted to write
but poetry, naw, no way, how could he.
The sound of falling snow, at Brissago
mesmorising, overpowering not like that nightmare.

Maybe that's what it's like to be dead,

just the soft imaginery sound of a whoosh,

a snowflake rotating 
to the ground.

The hoot of a train down in the valley,

a puffer
a trail of white vapour in billowing
along the lne.

Alf shouting along the quayside,
Le'go aft - cast off for'ard,
raucous Alf, the only authority
handed him in his life.

A murder of miners, black as coal
rolling the lumbering bus as they growled
out a hymn together, half asleep, content
as lambs to sit.

Gareth Edwards scoring at the Park
falling face down in the mud
his teeth showing through the morass
happy, seventy thousand shouting his name.

Cariad calling to him over the meadow
cooking a pie, her flowery dress fragrant
as the whisteria climbing the cottage wall,
her soft cool arms around his neck.

Holding his son, He has a form of juandice,
they said. I thought it the most beautiful colour.
Now he pats me on the head, Hi Da!
How good is all that. 

 

Reviews

[ieuan ap hywel]

Mar 27, 2016#2
I like some of the images, Frankly. I like The miners' stanza....is the lumbering bus the 'train' they ride down into the mine? If so, I think it's very nice. My favorite stanza is the last one. It's striking. Unexpected. Touching.
Bob