Welsh Journals

Each half-pint house A fertile waxing womb Bearing wonders of children And whippet-minded men Out of the warmth of the darkness Into a world of greyness. Minute windows peep Like private eyes Keeping observation On a singing nation Drunk with words And half-remembered history. Ragged kings roam still In the grey labyrinths Of tin-plate towns Chanting of other days And ways of living; Roaming they dream their dreams Of proud princes Ruling on high hills And harps singing in the evening. Castles are deserted-dead Towns are overflowing-full; Terraced houses breath a song In unison, Hold hands in rows Like daisy chains, or Children playing games. In dolls' houses Warmth is spread; In the hearth Is nourished A little love, While overhead The roof of heaven Arcs its way across the stars. Jack Raymond Jones