The Cravings Of A Welshman

Oh rampant pains
of a drunken Welshman
as 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

No Cwtches?

Old John Prescott, (he of the 'two Jags' fame) has admitted he never hugged his son, and few others have backed this astonishing revelation up. What is it with folk these days? Thats what Dai Jakes wants to know. Have we lost the bond between parent and child? Has it withered into nothingness? I blame the interwebz myself. Its taught us how to be more successful in anti socialism. We are fine when yakking away on a computer screen, tapping out endless words to strangers but whenever we venture out into the real world, we somehow become as meek as mice.