The Lads of Laugharne
(for Dylan Thomas, upon the Centenary of his birth)
Laugharne, curious Laugharne
you remain alone – no
lines connect – where cocklers still
leave stone-damp flats at dawn
to dig for cockles in the silted sand
silt the late moon discloses
to tug the River Taf away—
away from heron-priested shore—
and dissolve in sky, sky so big
the clouds spill in upon the river
Laugharne, dreaming Laugharne
gulls glide down your distant green
trail shrill notes that pierce blue air
do you hear or do you dream
of limb-weary Welsh lads carousing your pubs
heavy days soot-spent
heaving coal from river barge
O Laugharne, do you still dream
of the poet in the Boat House
perched there on the cliff