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dear helen

romantic writing

My first published poem, MISTS OF THE MORNING, and my latest published poem, CHALET AT ABER (inspired by a visit to Aberystwyth, North Wales), are shown below.

MISTS OF THE MORNING
From the sleeping waters, the cold, grey aerial mists awake.
Rising on the frosty air in silence,
Stirred by the warm, lambent glowing of
The mysterious, morning sun.
Floating over the dormant earth, drifting over
The slumbering fields,
With trembling tiptoe, as if fearful to arouse
The drowsy landscape's dream.
Lifting silently, swirling, stealing, shimmering,
Webs of the long night.
Lacy, frost-wreaths furtively wandering,
A greyness fading away into the silver morning,
High in the shining haze, lost in
The blue of day.

CHALET AT ABER
Serpentine dizzy road racing the car to Aber.
Cliffs' face jealously covered in sacking. Sombre
Sheep, teetering along the valley's sides. Poor
Victims of Nineties landscape, begging for rain.

"Let's go through Pontarfynach!"

The little one says - Welsh easy on the tongue -
Ysgol forgotten in the middle of July...

Greener here, frothing and spilling leafy branches,
Tree tops seen from the road, cool, gloomy depths airy,
Below the bridge and the river, pewter and white.

"Look, Mam, there's a cottage down there!
Can I have an ice cream?"

We two grumble, tired of the journey, thinking of
Bed and Welsh cakes from the shop on the fork...

Half an hour later, the car-cramped crew catch a glimpse
Of the charming valley, untidy arms of home, spread
Wide and welcoming. The toy train clattering
On the crossing.

"Can I go in it, Mam? Can I?"

And Saturday passengers wave to us on their way,
Up and out of the valley from where we have come!
The sound of its whistle speeds us fast over the
Bridge, sea-blue columns on white, stark on Welsh stone...

It is there still! Safe since last year. Our toy house, raised
On bricks, well away from the flimsy orange tents.
Garden, untended except for grass, which tends itself
This year! Can't compare with Jones' beans, heavy in red
Flower or the spilling, florid baskets of nearest neighbours.
But home once more for a lazy week of near relations
And then,

"Can we go now, Mam, can we?"

Dipping white toes in grey water,
Strong breeze on Constitution,
Aber and hydrangeas,
The smell of fish and chips,
Sundaes at the Milk Bar,
And the sun! So different from grey, sleet, adult days of
Long ago...

We sit around the table, staring
Across the valley, where the cloud shadows mottle
And the patchworked darkness of woods gives way to the shining
Roofs of town. We sigh, relax and butter the
Welsh cakes...

At twelve and the relations gone,
Child quiet in the bunk,
We dream in each other's arms,
Of courting and loving spoons,
On the bridge at Pontarfynach
And the chapel at Aber.

Piper
The Piercing