The ghost to his green

My memory of Wales was green and a very fast train

I had not heard of Cwmdonkin Drive or Dylan Thomas

I was heading for Holyhead and sea.

 

My destination was Ireland

home of Joyce rebel and black ale

I had a vague recollection of Richard Burton

reciting Under Milk Wood

and I knew he liked a drink or three

a bit of a lad with the girls and an all about

carouser.

 

I had stepped into a world full of Black Masses

and women mad on the rosary and prayer

I was there to corrupt the incorruptible

 

ah my sweet Colleen.

 

But she was always one step away from my

searching fingers as I tried madly to investigate

her jewels in the Abbey by night for

Colleen was pure virgin oil.

 

I came back via ferry from Dun Laoghaire

with a ship full of hippies singing Mellow Yellow

to the cold British dawn while the bard of Swansea

drank his bucketful of ales to his ghost on the green

 

a name I had not yet learned

 

as the estuary flows and sings in its marshlands

the land a darkened brood of poets bound

between the rock and sea

 

language rollicking between streams of collieries

and blacked bent men and in between all of this

I passed through with just a salutatory glance

unaware oblivious of its Celtic soul

 

for I was more intent of travel for travel’s

lonely sake and poetry as distant to me as my death

and Dylan Thomas a name I had not yet

learned.

 

 

 

from my book ‘the ghost to his green

a tribute to Dylan Thomas

 

copyright 2014 kenneth trimble

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