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.

the sad blood of dulse is moaning

on the battle-tides of wales

rumplestiltskin bladderwrack

is swaying on the loom of the sea

the booming sea-sky a gloaming

above the haunted forests of kelp

on and on the sirens call

come on, come on, come on.

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.

for john guzlowski’s mother

gritted, her words

have sucked the sadness from the earth,

so all that’s left is mirth.

time’s up death, down time retrace,

and wipe that smile from off your face;

for this is my rebirth.

cat o the morning

as i smooth my cat

she opens her soul to me

then a bird alights