The end of the rainbow.




We turned the wipers of,
as we pulled into the camp field,
a good year full of sun
and barley yield.

I'd forgotten the cheese and eggs,
remembered the tent pegs,
now top of the pops,
girls in summer tops.

Looking for a light from Nefyn,
sang a song,
undid the wrong,
blues for the muse,
remembering Aneurin Bevan.

Those square coloured Kodak snaps,
of Wales just the same,
Tide Moy,
five foot to the enemy,
a Rough Rider,
drank a little cider.

My grandmother used to read,
the bible to him in Welsh,
I asked him what he did at Wipers and the Somme,
he told me,
they piled the dead up like sandbags,
I didn't ask again.

He never told his daughter,
Jean a rock and roll Queen,
saw the Beatles play in Mold,
that's how he got through.

Even now with his pay book,
as though someone deleted the hard drive,
the records destroyed during the blitz,
leaving it to an Englishman,
to pour salt on that deep wound,
dulce et decorum est.

Listening to sound of the shot going off,
watching the red hot slag run down into the back gardens,
from Brymbo steel works,
a real Welsh volcano.

Always the best free coal on the fire,
stripped to the waist and bent double,
never caused any trouble,
as if you spent your life,
on your knees,
in mud and water.

He got some peace,
in the back garden loft,
with his pigeons,
they were sent to France,
in wicker baskets on the train,
they always came home.

24 Maesteg,
a round peg in a round hole,
even drawing the dole,
was a relief.

Passion's Dale,
the men of Wrexham,
here be seagulls,
here be dragons.



Aberdaron.


We be the sheep now,
littering the cottages we do not own,
with our English guilt edge,
bara brith and chips,
lottsa little ships,
the sound of Wales,
drifts over the stream,
sunning cats and cream,
was it a dream?

The tall stocky man,
with a farmer's hat,
missed the war
and fed the cat,
mother tells me when I am,
not taking her to the hospital,
about who they were
and what they did.

Blind aunt Agnes,
who made the best fruit cake,
delicious with feeling.

The silent church,
as if I never sang,
at the cathedral in St Asaph,
neat as a new pin,
bright as a May morning.

They took the lifeboat down to the sea,
was it for the you Ronald ?
dancing in the barn,
writing poetry
and sharpening the spears of that long night,
with your wet stone.

We will buy an ice cream,
the bicycle bell does ring,
their is always time for paddling
and building sandcastles,
a boy sweeps the sand back to the sea.

We drink to Stella,
in the TY Newydd hotel,
a bored girl,
shaves the potatoes,
I hold my hands out in supplication,
under the hot air dryer,
I am cleansed.

An archer from Agincourt,
scores a bull on the arrows TV,
their is to be a competition,
to count the pebbles on the beach,
I will borrow some sand
and put it in the hour glass,
of love and remembrance.


Pwellhi.

A friendly house painter
and rock on Tommy,
the gentle conversation of Wales.


Porthdinllaen.


The weather got affy dreach,
from St David's Head to the Irish sea,
grey and thin warm rain,
we headed to my childhood beach,
flying kites to teach.

We walked through the golf course,
where I once shot three under par,
bottled gas, no running water or electric,
she who keeps the sand out of the dinner.

The Famous Five,
reading two years before the mast,
in one day,
a cold coca-cola,
in the Red house,
with a new straw.

Crabs in buckets,
making caves in the sandy cliffs,
above the hollowed out sea mine,
with its redundant horns;
following the old man taking the elsan can,
back to the sea,
the small bones of a mackerel.

Having made the pilgrimage,
to my innocent youth,
we had some Victoria sponge
and an Americana,
on the way back.

Thinking of the Bay Tree,
a hip cafe where young beatniks,
could get a cream soda,
or a knickerbocker ice cream glorious,
in its long spooned luxury,
the sun always shined on the righteous.

The full moon as smiling,
as the swallows were swift,
'till a man in a boat,
took the head of a cormorant in flight,
with a banal 12 bore
and damn the war,
how we had to suffer it,
no wonder we believed in fairies
and cast the I Ching.

The three of cups,
abundance,
the best of them kept silent,
throwing themselves to the ground,
when a car back fired;
tea's ready and we wore no shoes,
laughing as running
and playing tag.

Love is a simple thing
and never hurts,
what of uncle Bert ?


Porthmadog.


Taking Lisa to sit quietly with some Friends,
Fox and welcoming,
as an ambulance,
after the battle is over.

Cups of tea,
the jigsaw fits,
as we settled around a warm fire,
watching the kids play on the campsite,
a full starry night,
our last day do pray
and so the journey home,
having made sure we had launched the lifeboat,
with a coin,
in its little glass box.

~