"Camping in Llangennith"
The tent bends unexpectedly,
That crab stretch
That bend and crack,
That the rain tracks
Through a noisy night
With it’s predatory wet.
Naturally cold. And it’s grey.
My daughter skips up,
Sidles over in play.
Her confidante whispers
That swish through her hair.
She tells me her three words,
I’ve had diarrhoea.
All that packing and cooking and washing things up.
We laugh at:
A judge from Galifrei;
Who loved who;
How we outdrank them all;
The kids just being cute,
Like cartoons made from you.
Food taste’s suddenly new.
As we talk through the night.
Dip our hands in the past,
Lift out songs hung with glue,
Rich with history dust
Blown from fingertips, husks.
Here’s one:
We remember, balls are fun.
We brazen the waves,
All their iron ice juice;
All their swell, climb and break,
While those girl-awful screams,
Gleefully roll
In a salt-crusted breeze.
Is anything a chore and fun like sand?
Booze perhaps. We certainly drink.
The fresh air fends our head’s retreat
A felt-cloth lack of sleep.
The aches that we live in like bruised fruit.
The sun that we wait for,
To mother, to soothe.
The first night I watch the hills disappear.
Light’s lazy like that,
A black hulk of skyline
Swung low for it’s strength.
We forget the stars’ prick,
All their inuit winks.
As tonight it’s for real -
Just land, sky and me.
The hills’ old dark yearn,
The whales’ backs down deep,
Eyes wide and you sense them
Up there, in the air. Sloping away.
We all know why we love them
Without being told.
© 2009 Richard M
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