September arrived in Laugharne
with weather fit for a pilgrimage:
This being Dylan Thomas Town,
the place where he lived,
worked and should have died.
Not on that trip to New York,
where 'eighteen straight'
and one misdiagnosis
did for him. He’s buried here
with Caitlin - under some
sore-thumb, cruciform stone
at St Martin’s: his painted cross
jarringly jagged and white
among the mellifluous
bible-black stones
of lesser-known folk.
We retraced Dylan’s steps,
til the weather closed in;
scarfed scones and jam
at his house: now a museum
bearing his name. My wife
breast-fed our first-born,
carried him in a loose sling,
as he snuffled and mumbled,
moored in gentle night.
Saw The Boathouse
where Thomas lived
with Caitlin and kids,
and composed poems
with one eye on the Taf,
that broad expanse
of table-flat water
encircled by hills,
palavers of curlews
giving flight
to his words.
His writing shed with cluttered desk,
shelves a jumble of well-thumbed books,
portraits and notes, a seldom-lit stove,
and an old grey jacket
draped over one splayed chair:
as if he’s just nipped out
for another beer
and will soon be back.