Welsh Journals

I posted the book to the poet a few days later accompanied by a letter. I received no reply and I did not see him again for seven years. I met the poet on one of the main streets in Cardiff. He had changed very little. He had shrunk a little. His eyes were less prominent, glittered less darkly. He had died a little and was seven years quieter in his actions. We retired to a neighbouring pub and talked over the fragment of old times which we had so briefly shared. 'You've changed a lot,' he said. The tone of his voice indicated that it was an improvement. We talked about Dylan Thomas's poetry, but not of his death nor of the time when I nearly met him. Back in the office, I thought about the improvement the poet had found in the face I presented to the world. I realised that I had travelled far beyond that point where 'time held me green and dying though I sang in my chains like the sea.' I realised, too, once and for all, that I would never meet that unique character with the lovely gift of the gab and a great thirst. I mean that I will never meet him this side of heaven. I have nothing therefore to contradict the belief that in some ultimate corner, in ghost town of by twentieth year, this story will have its proper conclusion. MONET: FEMMES AUJARDIN The garden settles. It is late. The tree upholds the dark: and yet beneath, There is some levity-an arm upstretched Touching a blossom, and a crinoline spread, Flowers lying on it. Even the dark couple Holding their blooms like palls of coloured silks, Are not quite old, not certainly afraid. But then, the sky! The sky beyond is purple, Unpromising behind the outstretched leaves, And if a shred of light lies on the grass It will soon flatten, lengthen, disappear. What power can halt it? Even the painter's hand Trembles with brush-strokes light as butterflies, Feels the dark terror creeping up the path. He leaves his canvas. And what happens then. ? Derek Parker