Caerfai Bay

I wander along the lane
to a forgotten chapel protected by brambles
Voices whisper of hope and death
hymns that cannot be sung

Winefride once sat here
clogged with religion, set like stone
yet she knew the ocean
the heavy call of earthly sea
the breaking waves, breaking
down to sand and slurry

now she sings

~ ~ ~


Writing at the kitchen table
or at this computer desk
is on torn-in-half sheets of used-one-side A4
(I did buy A5 once, but it was too neat, too proper)

After the scribble is typed up or
not bothered with
the sheet of paper is screwed into a ball
and chucked over my shoulder
in the general direction of the waste paper basket

Every now and then the floor gets cleared

[Writing outdoors is better
but you'll need a notebook]
[and clement weather]

~ ~ ~