Your vein-like roads and streets
partially lit-up at night,
back lanes, subways, bridges, canals
and rough and tumble council estates.
The little ‘Big Ben’ clock
right next to Victoria Gardens
giving out minutes and hours
to passing solicitors, criminals,
road sweepers and drug dealers
without bias and exactly the same.
That dirty old river
twisting around your belly,
those mountains and hillsides
which shoulder your timeless weight.
Your Market Heart beating loudly
deep inside anyone ever birthed
within your atlased embrace.
The waxing and waning of homesickness,
the magnetic pull towards ancestral bones.
I will never, no more, live their amongst
your hard, calloused finger grips.
Although, I shall carry your fighting spirit
inside my Welsh soul
and your crazy rhythm in my fiery blood
right onto my very last living day.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/