Inspired by Quinkie’s Elegantly Dressed Wednesday post on Peter O’Toole, I present Dylan Thomas. You all know the Pants elastic is wearing a little thin at the moment - I won’t lie. I was desperate for a steer this week so I trawled around the other EDW dedicatees, hoping to awaken either my creativity or, as a last resort, some distant memory.
"Croeso", you say and wish me well,
and invite a beer in Brown's Hotel.
Where Thomas once sustained the regale
now rebound the sounds of Emmerdale.
I wander The Boathouse where our man dwelt.
and snatch for a fragment of what he felt.
His voice carouses a whisky man's song.
and requests the laddies to grunt along.
Afon Taf recedes to meet the sun above,
as a flame-haired lady reads from The Map of Love.
A glass of wine, a summer night and strangers ten a penny -
how comforting the loneliness of the company of many.
Laugharne you've waited fifty years
for a suitable hanky to wipe your tears.
are Dylan and Caitlin and some of their friends.
and some of the people from Under Milk Wood.
Half Brigadoon, half Canterbury Tales,
you are the strangest place in Wales.