Early hours on a Friday morning,
and the surf's up on a sunny
beach in Wales.
Nestled between giants' stones that scrape the vast sky,
these silent sands are hidden
from the world.
An ivory treasure,
bourn on foreign tides long ago.
The Sun reigns here, night into day in a pinkish blur,
caressed by white and blue-grey waves.
She trails along the path,
towel and bathing suit
clutched under an arm
making her way towards
that which calls her
that goddess, ultimate, plunge and pool.
Her life, a whirling light too fragile to be gambled on rocky currents
but always, she finds a breath here.
a seaside-sanctuary of seagulls sqwuak and summer bliss -
She is Forever swimming,
and Caerfai Dreaming.

Are you coming in, vicar? The night is getting cold,
The sky is dark, the trees are quiet,
and it won't hurt to have a small one.

Let me take your coat sir, come and sit beside the fire.
A whiskey? there you are,


I've always wondered why you haven't married -
surely a man of the cloth must be in want of a wife?

Vicar, if you'll allow me, you have something on your cheek,
that collar looks frightfully uncomfortable;
just leave it on the mantle there,
I see the way you look at me during sermon.

I've loved you always, Will, say you feel the same.
God, my darling, I love it when you whisper my name.

We would embark before daybreak,
cut through the bustle of a busy airport,
then drift over a fog of clouds,
childhood innocence returned for a few precious hours.
Take silly polaroids of a window's view of paradise.
When we touch down, I would wheel you on a luggage trolley, laughing all the way into the cab,
then nervously flick through a three dollar city guide.
At nightfall out in the sticks, our cabin windows would cast a warm light over the tops of pine trees,
wolves and ghosts roaming the shadows.
In the crisp air of the morning I would walk out onto the balcony in my underwear, mug of coffee clasped tightly,
pale legs stretched out as I tiptoe on the frosty boards.
The sun would peak out from the horizon, and birds would dive and screech above me.
We would go rowing out on the lake, wrapped up in ugly scarves and big sweaters,
The dark water swishing around our oars quietly.
When we journey to Washington, our tickets will be one way.
I will cling to that life forever.