journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
On the way to Caerfyrddin
follow the deep rut lane to the top of the hill:
oil-stained grass leads the way
through high-bank tree-dark tunnels
sun splashed where the axe man came
you'll pass the dark damp twist at empty Tymaen,
discarded toys lie on the verge,
a porch-window is broken
letting rain in and thirsty geraniums out
there's a break by the big green and white house,
sparked by King George's bright red poled post box;
glance glean the garden clean
tended daily by Dewi the lantern-man
go past the lines of Christian cars at St James'
left by morning wafer-eaters and the sippers of sour wine
outside close-clustered houses painted Snowcem white
in the village known as Rhos and sometimes called Llangeler
then courage turn into fast-run traffic
road rattle, tarmac hum
leaf lifting, cow-dung mashing
on the way to Caerfyrddin
John Bailey
Somerset, August 2001
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