At Laugharne summer returned.
Fine weather for a pilgrimage:
This being Dylan Thomas Town,
The place where he lived, worked,
And should have died, not on that trip
To New York, where 'eighteen straight'
And misdiagnosis did for him.
His death a product of his fame,
His fame a product of his death.
His family brought him home.
He’s buried here, with Caitlin, under some
Sore-thumb, cruciform tombstone
At St Martin’s cemetery: a brilliant white cross
Among the bible-black rows of dearly-departed.
We retraced Thomas’ October steps,
Until heavy weather closed in on us;
Ate a Welsh tea of scones and jam
And cheese. Fed our son, carried him
In a loose sling, as he murmured
And snored, wreathed in gentle night;
Saw The Boathouse where Thomas wrote
Looking across the Taf, a broad expanse
Of table-flat water, fringed by hills,
Where palavers of birds gave breath
To his perception, his poetry;
The writing shed with cluttered desk,
Shelves bearing a jumble of books,
Portraits and notes, seldom lit stove,
Grey jacked draped over a chair:
A trace of his capacious form.