At the 11th hour.



The tin appears in the pub,
trees are shedding their coats,
to withstand moaning mini,
the cordite girl in her hat and piny.

He told me he was 15,
when he went to join the colours,
they turned him down,
he walked 600 miles,
to win his crown.

My grandfather said nothing,
and let free his pigeons,
with a ring on,
for the boys he knew.

They kindly gave him a job on top,
inside the Welsh of him,
was crying as Tide,
she sang of Dewi Sant,
when her daughters came back.

The old lie,
remembering still.

~