Back Home Mumbles greets, with pop-to-shop chatter, the ping of welcome, the smell of new, Welsh crafted gifts and the slow-down of browse.Home is in the accent, in the dragon on...
My hands are imagining you, the cool pale, your shoulders, like hawk wing, I sculpt,
The aunts never shaved their legs. They rolled up their trousers and ran into the sea.
When you wake with petals strewn at your inner imaginings, you try to live up to the sweet start,
It's a mystery, how the mind leaps from primitive sound to intricate, webbed sentence,
This moss is her island, its dewy green . . .
When the bough breaks and my oak tree heart is joined by an echo,
Burgundy-earth patches on cream, soft as calla lily.
The maple leaf stops them. Its veiny palm invites examination, as peach and pale green cross shades. Autumn does this to maple leaves; scorns their attempts to cling onto their tree of birth, strikes them down, flattens their flame. And then, somebody finds the leaf, finds charm in its crown-like edges, its slight resemblance to thorns.