Cymn.



A blessing and a verse on it,
suckle the tit,
the roses wet with dreams,
the falcon breams.

So the flags flow back to the river
and where the sun touches the sky,
she is waiting the giver,
a modest hope, the silent child cries.

What now? stern old man,
did we forget me not,
denied the parties tot,
a longing that ram.

Their is no finer welcome,
the sound of Wales from the back room,
sharp steel pen-nib healing soon,
Owen's serving bowls like the sun.

The red cross, ambulance colour sergeant,
picked his way through the minefield,
such is love our sacred shield,
the red curtain rent.

They had waited on the shattered beach,
saved by Neptune's love,
sailors in Afrique 1942 a torpedoed tanker,
took time out to thank her,
he got an oak leaf with his dove.

He sells the Mail down Colmore Row,
like the one from the Light Brigade,
came back and married his maid,
a gun carriage at the end,
so we should know,
the honour of service,
the kindness she did sew.

Broke the thread with his teeth,
put the red jacket on,
carry this letter to me mam,
fighting still on the blasted heath,
the boys pitted against the Viking thief.

Play up, play up
and keep your eye on the ball,
that ten thousand fall around me,
I shall hear the call,
pipers at the gates of dawn,
dappled forest fawn,
hope for Grandma, Arthur, William and Bert.


The serving maid, in a football shirt.

~