I was here on the cliff at glan-y-mor, his reverie.
Below, the boathouse, washed a pastel shade
of lemon doused by sea mists of the Afan Taf
that meander into Carmarthen Bay. He sat and wrote
window open to the sea across the marsh from Black Scar
the farm at Pentowyn, and Craig Ddu – Black Rock.
Lazy days, sun struck in summer, a flagon of bitter.
an empty bottle: his ty bach, when full he watered
the bushes. A sleep at noon and when the sun sat
near the horizon over the Celtic Sea, it was time
for tea. Welcomed visitors: a sea breeze to waft
the heat away and Vernon who came to gaze
upon his Arthur, a warrior of words, who wielded
a pen as cleverly as the sword. To sit and read
to listen to the sedge warbler’s call, an infinite
variety of series of ratchet trills and warbled
peeps. No one warbler’s call the same, too complex
far beyond any mere composer’s grasp
This is where he watched little boats bob, wind
waving reeds, lovers entwine, Polly Garter
and Gossamer Beynon from Llareggub. He could see
Captain Cat pull in lobster pots, listen to the terror
in his dreams. He liked to get away from her-indoors
the sudden fury of her fists, her insatiable demands
No Blodeuwedd she, no dainty flower. A passing
local could serve, she danced on a yellow shore
showing off her all, her twmpath her wares.
R. S. Thomas said of Vernon that coins rattling
on the bank counter were to him like the splashing
of the waves at Ginst Point. Robert Graves spoke
of him as a man with hywl, and yet he spoke
no Welsh but the hywl is there, see it shine in:
Rage, Rage against the Dying of the Light
We grieve with him for the loss of a father. Fame
had reached out to hold him in its grasp, sad that
morphine administered by an inept physician took
him. Remember how the fag hung from his pout, poems
that trill like the sedge warbler’s call, soak in the dreams
of his lush women, bard of the bards of Laugharne.
