For all involved with the Dylan Thomas International Literary Residency 2014. Tack så mycket.
April air mizzles cool, jewels
and drips along telephone wires
netting the dull streets together. We left
as quickly as we took root, one minute
brilliant yellow, the next a puff
daffodils cracked from wet roadsides,
dust in a jumble of lights.
At the echo of my popping heels
the gulls wash upwards, crying
outside the station. Car horns.
Welsh accents. I breathe through
the fug of my knitted scarf, soak
in that steely rain, remember
Tranås, mosquito-sticky. Forests
of vertical shadows, the fir-brittled
lattice of light. Remembering
how we’d looked up, laughing
through the sweet smoke
of barbecued meat,
spilled wine, waved the lace
of nicotine smoke
of poetry. Chewed pipes
in a clatter of tracks.
I shut my eyes in the Swansea rain.
Inside the station, a train coughs awake.
I strain for its rattle, its quivering speed.