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The Cravings Of A Welshman (New Poem)



The Cravings Of A Welshman


A drunken Welshman

he prowled the streets

for a simple Englishman.

To pick his bones

and lob the stones,

into pools of choir

as Myfanwy groans.


The ale and laver

does hwyl his soul,

from Felinfoel

to fields of coal.

On Burry Port

and Pembrey shores,

the Welshman

knows his cockle chores.

Gwenllian walks in Kidwelly mun,

without her head,

beyond the sun.


Cymru! Wales!

Where bards run riot

The cawl is deep

the lovespoons quiet.

Long he sleeps

on Merlin's hill,

the wizard's Welsh

stirred Bennett's Phil.


Dragon red

lift claw in pride,

three feathers comb

the pride inside.

No fear breaks

the soul of man,

storms lay shattered

by cwtches hand.


Wales! Cymru!

Ancient Celts,

mother's tongue

on dafodil belts.

Sing of old

as sing we must,

the Cymru tribes

of Swansea dust...


©Steven Francis poems 2013

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