I need to be Welsh here

my englishness feels strange

and a kind of mystic guilt of it

hangs heavy, grounded like the rain

washing down from gutters

sleek on slate, self imposed.

 

I am not of,

not from, and

don't belong and yet

with respect I watch the hunched groups

sharing news, events, what matters

in a finely sifted context

somehow looking in.

 

I can sense Llaregyb, Thomas's ghost

taking root with some blighted view

of patchy floor in a crouching bar

pessimism ordained,

a frosted window and a silhouette

shared with a lonely banquette.