Laugharne

We arrived early, Laugharne was still asleep.

Having not had breakfast, with both of us famished

we found a café with no proper menu and

I ordered a plate of rarebit, the real stuff,

to impress my Welsh son-in-law

and sent him photographic proof.

After food, sated, we skirted the castle ruins

and strolled the tide path to the boathouse

foolishly taking the vertiginous steps

and not the scenic village route

which would have been much easier.

With a sweep of superlative syllables

the Tâf estuary deftly carried our breath away

on a broadly curved brushstroke of an ebb tide.

I mistook a sea otter for a seal, but

Anna put me right with better eyes

as transfixed, we watched it flail

a broken kelp stalk like a cudgel, 

making elaborate dives and swirls, 

breaking cover like a large black button,

its brief flourishes an unexpected treat.

The morning heat had already roasted

the timbers of Dylan’s writing shed,

I peered through its pane like an urchin

sent in search of an errant father

down the pub, finding nothing

more than his discarded jacket 

haphazardly robing an empty chair.

Before leaving I bought a well-carved owl 

and a tiny wooden mouse,

hoping it would go down well with Bea

as our gift for stealing away for a few days.

Over iced cream, we listened

to the opening stanzas of Under Milk Wood

from a talking book in the car,

Burton’s sonorous tone spreading rich as honey.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/22