Swansea Bay sands on a winter night

Swansea Bay sands on a winter night

Roosting crows, a black blizzard blowing,

November the 5th_ing down on this winter day;

across, along and darkening, lowing;

darkness falls across Swansea bay.

Enveloped in that velvet blanket spotted
by the baubles of Townhill and Brynmill lights.

Dockside the piers, red and green lamp-dotted,

with Mumbles lighthouse bookmark the night.

The lace-torn spinster moon, saddened, grey,

lies shallow along this night’s deafened spine,

between the sea, and the city’s murmuring way,

as insensate as the slow moon’s slow incline.

Over the shoulder, looking around, and arounded

for the presence - there behind you, now; and now 

the welcome crunch of shells ashore and grounded,

confirm that this is terra firma, n’er terrored brow.

Depressed under this black night on night;

dark down feel the salty temple pads,

electro-convulsive shocks the night light

bright, to reign supreme, happy, and happy glad.

Silence so deep where no silence is,

upon the wind-wink of a star;

we see there is no linear end to this, 

for a multiverse might be intersected far

down the Swansea river Tawe flows

the grey/pink clouds, heavy with snow;

rolling down from Brecon Beacons,

with promise to whiten this black bay right now.

Around, around, spin around; arms outstretched,

sketching in white on this black palimpsest of memory;

Swansea bay on this night be so there etched,

that you know, you just know

that this is where you are meant to be.