He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.

I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair

 Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
  roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets

Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge

There are places in Wales I don’t go: reservoirs that are the subconscious of a people – R S Thomas

Cofiwch Dryweryn, that two-word protest,
white on blood-red background, landscaped in green,

Some days I must immerse myself in the waters
These days are more than others

Monday 09.06 – a sewage overflow has activated

He does not shout. He charts.
Where treaty lines once hung like old nets,
he inks the deep, the dark, the yet-unmade.

Huddled on the cat’s blanket,
hyenas crying through the night.

Scribbled notes regretting tea,

I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.