where art collides

Well,
We listened with amusement.
We enjoyed the later banter.
The elder male grandchild was on.
He held the crowd.
He shouted clear.
The description was crisp and the cola was tasty (so we hear).
Then we heard the sirens.

The pool, providing you can find somewhere to plonk your stuff, is a good place to go when you arrive.

The queue of cars, when it was time to go to the villa, was long and with engines running not particularly environmentally friendly.

The villa, when you finally get there in the car, is a long way from the pool.

It’s a good job we have the car, because 50 camels worth of baggage would have taken a long time to carry the seemingly miles to the villa.

The beer, after we had returned the car, was very satisfying.

The queue, in the Parc Market, was highly frustrating when considering all I wanted was a pack of bacon for breakfast.

The bill, from the Parc Market, did not represent a single pack of bacon.

The rain, on the way to the bike hire place, was somewhat disconcerting.

The rain, when riding the bike back to the villa, was very wet and for those of us with glasses, obfuscating.

The hills, between the bike shop and the villa, were completely exhausting.

The glass of wine, back at the villa, was absolutely essential.

The cuddle with Anne, at the end of it all, was highly satisfying

Center Parcs, Longleat, Easter 2009.

wyth awr i lawr i lwch,
uffern o le mewn tywyllwch;
eu tynged oedd syched hwch,
diffrwythwyd mewn diffeithwch.

gan alun davies

What brought about the fury of that dawn?
An ire that kept the harbour’s ships at bay,
And hid the folk of town in narrow streets,
That rose above the battered beach cafe.

The birds unsettled, taunted by the waves,
Though blinding sand the elements’ ordeal,
The sea a boiling mass that overflowed
To crash upon the castle rocks at Peel.

The ocean’s cities in ill-disciplined parade,
Their towering sides, skyscrapers of the storm,
Disordered buildings ranged in disarray
With roads, deep troughs, that met no shape or form.

That Davy Jones had risen from his grave
Seemed certain to onlookers in the spray,
He chose to punish miscreants abroad
Who should have better meant to stay away.

Then when at last the wind had sung its tune,
The clouds moved on to play to other halls,
And fishermen returned to ply their lines,
From high upon the granite harbour walls.

My eyes are stinging

And my nose smarts

From the sensory attack

That is the annual chutney cook-in.

The fruit soaks up the spices in vinegar

Swelling with proud absorption,

The spoon stirs until leaving a trail,

Standing in the rich, dark pool of preserve.

Hot jars await the plasma ,

Rubber seals close down the smell,

Weeks of virtuous patience are

Rewarded with palatable satisfaction.

Walking along the path
He left a noticeable trail,
It was a smell,
A feeling,
An impression,
A change to the landscape,
Even an attitude.
It was nothing new
But nobody had seen it before.
He left the path behind and
After a while the trail
Began to fade away,
Though the weight of his footfall
Made it last a little longer than
It might have done,
As it did for others.

He left a tip for the taxi driver
And bought a train ticket
With his credit card,
Spoke to the barman,
Sang in the street,
Winked at the girl,
Had an eye test,
Switched the light on,
Painted the garage,
Mowed the lawn,
Picked up a piece of litter and
Put it in the bin,
Had four children
Who left home and
Then he occasionally saw
Until he died…