Laugharne and stuff. 

　
Down the motorway runway,
that goes on forever,
leads to soaring Wales.
 
A warm fire welcome,
waiting for the dusters to do their business,
in the holiday home,
no more to roam,
friends and the love of expectation,
a beautiful mind on the tele.
 
Artists await us in the millennium hall,
called to the call,
Dylan a rock star or a poet?
on the bobbing bay,
the boat does float,
the artist’s giro,
the ever ready biro.
 
Did you see her,
was she real?
this love is a steal,
how you wanted to be a bohemian,
left the girls crying,
the jackdaws flying.

I heard a thousand stories of your life,
never kissed your wife,
even read your lighthouse verse,
a man drinks a fish,
the cat licks the dish.
 
A gobstopper that has lasted 100 years,
when do we get to the aniseed?
the longing that does bleed,
you will always be an old man,
unless you die young
when I’m 104.
 
Shagging in a plastic mac,
in a tin shed,
bread and butter pudding,
the tattooed man,
the fat boy,
the midget,
the strong man,
the tightrope walker.
 
The shouty poet gets the prize,
there are flies on him,
did morphine gin?
and she singing her melody,
like the sea,
time for tea.
 
The roaring boys are in Brown’s hotel,
are you feeling very well,
does the butler bring the tea,
who had you up the alley?
the tourists turn up for the poets rally.
 
I saw you for the first time,
a young heron,
bringing luck and summer,
to the houses with chimneys.
 
The South African lady in the café,
was serving Coronation chicken
and the children in the playground,
sang rhythms to welcome the spring.
 
The traffic warden looked busy,
stealing the souls of cars,
battling on Mars,
izzy wizzy let’s get tizzy,
in the Public Arms.
 
In 1953 our queen got crowned,
a poet went to heaven,
where the bread is leaven,
the cast bell does sound.
 
She said her neighbour would follow her,
shout behind her back,
because she wanted to get to the enchanted forest.
 
Two Americans slept by Dylan’s grave,
through a cold night,
such is the love of poets,
such is the love of poetry.
 
A murmuration of starlings,
a new moon with a lone star,
come into the bar she said,
I will make you happy.
 
Skull cracker is on the run,
we pass Swansea prison,
another university of crime,
just passing time.
 
Wandering round South Wales,
as back home mother is unwell again
and the doctor has been called in once more,
all very Dylan and lava bread;
eating an ice-cream in the sun,
looking up at the castle.
 
Remembering her when she was young and beautiful,
91 years to heaven,
all my thoughts are with you mother.
 
You Dylan where born at the start of war,
died when the queen of peace came to play
and you mother,
talking to the unemployed Welshmen,
on the bridge over the river,
when you were young
and bright as buttons,
before they took you to make bombs.
 
Outside my window,
a man cleans the stones,
of the old Welsh schoolhouse
and the children sing rhythms,
in the sunny playground.
 
How you have always been with me,
with your healing voice
and your infinite love,
that lit candles
and allowed me to dance.
 
Trundled down to a small city,
St David’s,
looking for some pity,
to light a candle for mother,
each one sister and brother.
 
It was breezy and bright,
a star in the night,
ended in a pub on St David’s head,
the quiet chatter of Welsh
and cold lager;
I rang mother,
she sounded a little better,
St David is in Town.
 
The rusty heater chugs away
and wishes us good afternoon,
the local sausages make a nice tea,
oh to be free in the Three Mariners,
Thursday follows Wednesday,
tomorrow it’s the boathouse.
 
£4.10p entry fee,
a pound of for cripples and lunatics,
to fumble through the rubbish bin,
in case we find a poem,
heron reed in the blue sky,
a dead poet business,
his grandchildren asking,
what happened to grandfather’s money?
 
I will lay ten players please,
on the small table by your armchair
and a box of swan vestas.
 
It was raining,
when I went to see if you where in,
you had gone away
and your poetry became more magical.
 
You read Just William,
as I did
and played and dreamed and wrote,
a crown on the tote
all love afire.
 
Don’t write when you’re pissed,
you may be missed,
all love is without mention,
please stand to attention.
 
I laid some daisies and wild primroses,
on your grave,
the father of the rave
and so our silver wedding anniversary bash,
had run out of time,
the fine wine of poetry
the merry free
and I knew I had fallen in love with Rosie Probert.

~