Alf Smith was his name, though, we should remember him

As more than the labourer on a small Welsh farm

Who milked the cows and tended every farmer whim;

Twice daily fitting clusters onto teats and pouring milk to churns,

Taken for collection to stand beside the lane between the ferns.

Twice daily, too, he cleaned the shed with hose and broom

And waited to hear what chores would f...

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In cloaks of words I wrap myself against the weather
Storms I conjured up as punishment.
Hands full of swords thrusting up out of the earth
The round route I take.  Gazelles return again
To the brink, to drink.  And me? To think.
So I skirt mans burning fire, hyena lurking
Laughing in the dark.  A great arc I make
Like a dim sun at the end of his leash
Scribing the day across the sky...

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