take me down to laugharne again,
the quiet ways of the sleepy town
again, and we’ll pretend
a drink in brown’s and then
write a line through the writing shed,
window cobwebbed, and on again,
to tea at the boathouse on the mud,
and how he’d bloody laugh at them,
a fag-coughing, uproarious, laugh and then
he would snare them in a poem.
I want to see that laugharne again,
heron stranded on a broken-boated tide.
oh, do take me back to laugharne again,
to the white-walled-gated lanes again,
it brings back the undermilk words to me,
for he might be around every corner see,
and there he is again!
but then again, then again ...