Songs

(i)

The stumble of suicides from Strumble Head.
Their cries are not mine now, I'm primed to forget.

The dull rounds of vicious city mouths
Do not astound me -There is one vision left,

In the lee of lime-washed walls where we slept
Beyond the dawn. Not even a ghost to speak of,

And every morning cloud, a rose bowling
Down through the blue. You and I lived

In league with the other side, pitched high
On the rim of a ten-penny piece.

Vainglorious, we willed this vacancy.
From Whitesands to Newgale,

Harried our fates, not with sticks, but love -.
The deceits of these too bright sails.

(ii)

The west is shining. The sea wears
The Llyn for a necklace. Bottle blue,

Its gemstones ring; voice of all the earth.
Beyond the warren, wood sweats

The resinous breath of Monterey.
The pines play close with their secrets,

Content in the spread of inert wings.
Like nitrogen, I am stretched

For the same stillness. Their constancy
Finds me wanting, asks why I came

So late to life. Hears no reply,
But the run of memory. An over eager child,

He skips free from open palms,
Combs the shore for accomplishment,

Returns overblown, a hat full of boasts.
I was never a match for the swagger

Of your maverick soul. Do you remember?
We cast ourselves as kings! Llandwyn

Measured our strides with magic,
Hung a bell from her bell tower.

Bribed bad dreams with good blood,
Songs fool enough to wish, for life-long

Epiphany.