music returns to auschwitz and a lone voice sings

music returns to auschwitz 
   and a lone voice sings

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such longing, such an aching lamentation.

why do you not scream out, or 

laugh in an inconsolable madness

and release me from the gibbet 

of your anguish?

that i could manage,

that i could cope with.

and, no, i do not want to forget, 

but there is beauty in the purity of the 

voice that impales the pain;

it holds me spellbound.

i weep now for all mankind;

doomed, doomed, as we are, 

doomed to relive a myriad deaths 

and shades of suffering

before the end. 

oh, i bleed down these ochre walls,

as i relinquish into a sea of wailing

all of my sorrow; 

i dread what yesterday will bring 

unto the ‘morrow;

it lacerates my sadness 

to hang empty upon the night air, 

and i wail and wail, but to no avail;

for alas is never enough;

is it?

kara

kara 

     tarrah!

she is only twelve, and yet she is already

a seed bursting in a summer pod. 

sometimes she may be as bitter as laburnum; 

but taste it you will. 

she is fired in the yellow of tomorrow’s dawn;

she has her chin upon the clouds;

she is going there, stop her if you dare!

cage the spirit and the bats will beat the bars; 

can you claw the air back into a cage? no! 

so let her breathe, say goodbye then she might tarry; 

spinning at the other end of the skipping rope, 

head in the stars that orbit her sun. then whoosh! 

so be gone my lovely, wave back now and then?

please
          please

multiplication

multiplication 

damp is the crooked valley of that smile 

the dark musk road to procreation 

believe unto belly into belly

for mile upon mile of the time

when the footfall along that road

set the future from here to year

love is such a strange desire

don’t you think

under the mountain of that smile

in the sighs between the thighs 

while all the time

it was and will be 

for it is preordained

and so it was 

       and so we did

              and so it must be

eventide

eventide

he is custard-suited, sun-seated, on

the promenade-smiled bench. 

oh,

these newspaper days. when he can say

that he has seen it all before and lived 

to tell the tale. to tell it to the breeze

that brings the tears that dry as

quick as they are cheek-borne.

how this late summer is to be savoured,

just beyond his flaky fingers

that lean upon his silver cane,

to tip the day bonsoir, au revoir;

tomorrow will be straw-boated

once again,

and the sun will shine.

my mother used to say that

the things mums say are

forever tattooed in your mind

they never fade with the years

tears make them shine brighter

they will die with you

they are the pillow of

your last goodbye

the doldrums of dawn

the doldrums of dawn

the bees are sawing the morning,

as the flowers flute come on;

  then the sparrows tutt and tit tit it,

  but the great-tits have flit and gorn;

and the cat? well she’s stalking the breeze,

that clacks the crows to clack back, "black-cat"

until ...

the wood pigeon (l’m a big bird don’t you know)

soothes "who wants a second cup of tea?"

"me! and how perfectly purrfect" mews the cat,

and so - hi oh - another morning moment,

goes yawning down the fair dews of dawn.

laverbread (bara lawr)

laverbread (bara lawr)

give me your ebony tears,

my darling sea;

spill your black maidenhair,

over sea’s rock and chair;

this laver bred, 

from the menu of the sea,

so deliciously a minded.

long in picking,

under the chiding sun;

long in washing, 

until the moonshine;

long boiled down

in fond anticipation.

in oatmeal faery-dusted,

fried with bacon and cockles;

this breakfast from gower

fit for the king of neptune.

wide eyed,

welsh-hat black,

black as the coal in our veins,

the steelworks at night.

       ours 

    it is,

  in our way,

eaten by us welsh,

swansea market stalled,

a memory in taste

of the sea, 

 for you,

   for

      me.