I.

On the hilltop

in Dylan Thomas’ town,

a vista he could have witnessed:

patchwork-quilted hills

stitched together with hedgerows,

dotted with insect sheep,

a skyful of clouds,

handfuls of sheepswool

playing shadow figures with the land,

a long languid arm of the bay

reaching in between the green,

suntanned sand, glistening with last tide,

and a single white sailboat

beached and waiting

patiently for the next.

II.

Down now to the turning town

trundling past the old castle,

ventilated by Cromwell,

streets populated with pubs

most of which Dylan knew

but not by his own name,

and a singular white cross

in the hillside churchyard

above the town that told him,

leave the other life;

live here.

09/30/2001

Posted on 09/30/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt