Not Raglan Road
The spit, piss and vomit of Bridge Street;
Market Street’s chewing-gum tattoos and flaking
dog-end scabs, have all too often kissed the soles
of her suede boots. The leafs and litter sent flailing
over the kerb by motorists are bruised beneath
their tread. On a day like this, a handful
of raindrops may just find their resting place
in her hair. And as she passes the Pen-y-Bont,
the water of the Gele is pulled over troublesome stones
toward her. Past The Gwindy now,
and from the shops the fragrances of coffee
and pastries whisper perfume-like
about her naked wrists and throat. I watch
as I sit in this third pub from the sun
and she arrives at the crossing.
There is only her moving through this world;
the cars have stopped, the traffic lights
embarrassed for me.
Brett Evans drinks in his native North Wales, his poetry has been featured in several UK publications and he is co-editor of Prole and co-founder of Prolebooks http://www.prolebooks.co.uk/