Late September sunshine. 

 
The pub in Abersoch,
rocks to the sound,
of minor public school boys,
who play golf.
 
The tele in the holiday home,
doesn't have radio 4,
the government are still kicking the poor,
forgetting we vote,
they sold the tote;
there is a bowl of water for visiting dogs.
 
A working girl past her prime,
drinks supermarket wine,
who reads poetry in Syria ?
London quietly waits its day;
fuck me a pub with soap,
the ghost of  Mr Thomas.
 
Fish and chips on a Friday,
barra brith in Welsh Wales,
Picasso drives up the street.
 
There is a glass box,
with pink sand, three shells and a candle,
senior citizens filling the streets and cafes
and so to Porthdinllaen.
 
The sea so calm and flat,
you could walk on it,
the village now on the electric
and that golf course,
where I once got a hole in one,
earning shillings finding the lost balls,
today it's the Ffestiniog railway,
to Blaenau.
 
Where there slate,
was divined over all English roofs,
the miners have gone underground forever
and the weather tempts the tourists,
to buy a dragon  ashtray.
 
We wait for the little steam train
and think of British rail,
the sun beams at us,
a stairway to heaven.
 
The nasty party tasks the unemployed,
to pay for the rich man's caviar,
can't afford a jar,
no love on the dole,
the tourist train rattles through the wood.
 
The rain bestrides the coming of the fall,
after a September,
fit to be bottled.
 
So to a picture window of an art gallery,
art for arts sake,
in a Bay Tree of a cafe,
everything just so,
a line of Welsh gold on the rings,
come Christmas a choir that sings
and the roar of a log fire,
in its Edwardian splendour.
 
A shared experience of Celts,
the Bakewell pudding
and ice cream that melts.

~