Aberystwyth
This year, winter came barging in,
an unseemly brute with no care
In the grey of the morning
and the grey of the afternoon
and the glory of the rarer, clearer nights
I have been thinking
about a coastal chorus
rattling thin glass
in ancient flaking frames,
angels with their wings stretched to the tip
over groaning sea walls,
beaches being thrown
like so many rattles out of so many prams
to live lost in the roads,
cars crackling in their wake
like bonfires turning over,
a perfect mole hill of dusty green,
it’s drowsy, pale horses, old fellows in a quiet bar,
and a dream house observatory
surveying its braying sheep
under a low and sleepy sun
And me, a child before it all
slowed for once
in a moment
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