Penmaen Post Office, c. 1980

Yes. All things weighed
I’ll have to make another raid
On the unspoken.
The eyes have it!
…sparkling like the sea, or sad,
So quick to tears…
In this darkness
(Dark the moonshine, darkly bright)
Thine and hers
(Mae hi’n braf!)
Are in nextworked lattices of tree’d organa
Thou, (and it is you, sly little- no, not at all, not at all,)
Thou, (he said again, growing sadder by the minute) art unto me (Oh)
Shall I speak plaine? Not yet.
Ich liebe dich, Ya lublyu te, vas, whatever, Carolime Stone, Cariad.
I’ll speak plain.
Over the rocks she picks her way,
On an adventure holiday.
And the cliffs hang heavy over her bowed head, awaiting examination.
Ark! Erk!
Three quarks for the jerk
In the jacket
Who fumbles his packet
Of baccy. A light! My kingdom for a-
Erk! Ark!
Hanging in sunshine-ruffled splendour,
The gulls cry out their hoarse asides.
Over the rocks the flying spray
Claws at heaven, up, away,
White water hangs over the bowed beach waiting,
Heavily down now in sunshine splashing splendour,
All along the beach shout you, look-
She saw, sure she did on the thudding shore,
And felt the detonation of tons of seawater, the spray
Crack back out of the cavemouth
Why me?
Oh why am I what am I to do now?
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? What drivelling
Pitiful backwash of regret, look how it drains away in the pitted terraces,
How the clattering pebbles lament that last loss- another one gone!
Back into the noisy surfeet splashing, leaving nothing though
There aaaalways reminds the mumbler, remains the rememberer the
Memories of girls on scraps of white paper. No. Try-
Memories of gulls like scraps of white paper. Better.
So I said to myself, no, he said to himself
(chumbling in his damnable beard)
Shall I speak plain?
Or would the pain
Only be renewed? After all, whose
Is the paradise he fears to lose?
My breast- No, strike that out, that too is too too- what the hell,
My breast as well
Is bursting like a pomegranite (quartz conglomerate, sharply sparkly)
Are pommer granites citrus fruit?
Shall Willhelm Meister offer Mignon
(There among the citrus groves)
The sour sweetness of plain speaking?
What’s in your lunchbox, lovey?
Sweet and sour talk.
On Cefn Bryn there is no forgiveness, only the grasses (Agrostis Tenuis) flaring flat at a sudden gust, gwynt- no spring breeze this, the real impeller, feller, and look- a sudden shaft of sun strikes the cold stone gold. Lower down, the pathway’s rutted, as she comes on tepping toned clumpily booted, running now- oh half hurls earth for her off, un-der her, feet. Old red Sandy lies under her commando soles, what is truth? shall we go for a nice cream at the Penmaen pissed office? Cyn ‘n’ Buzz’d mintchocchip, slurpycool yummy, and on down the path through gorse and sandy bunkers, identifiable constituents, well, yes, there and look you, there too, prickles and yellow flowers. And down onto the beach itself- a slither of warmsoft sand- what is traeth?
Oh don’t let’s kid ourselves, not mock ourselves with loseable paradises, as the sea, wrinkling or sheerly sheened to the horizon, laughs in our faces.
I will show you fear
In clipped phrases:
And a tear
Shot sparkling
Onto an old man’s sleeve
Is another paradise to leave

Have a look at my other writing here… (opens in new tab)

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