These facts are true. Some more, some less.
A ragged cove bearded with mist,
a smuggler’s grin, the cunning promises
of cawl and cwtch none should resist.
The dying light ghosting their theatre
of warmth beyond those dunes of ifs
and buts. They hear the moon-breeze mutter
of clefts and crags, the crumbling cliffs.
I see her stoop and gather driftwood,
her secret smile. Misunderstood?
The whispers will befuddle the act,
are we all bound by myth or fact?
I’ll nurture writing scripts from birth,
untangle roots from knotted earth.
Really like this Phil. Made me look up, “cwtch” - cool word. Beautifully crafted sonics and subtle rhymes. Love the traditional borrowings coming together into something of you own. Great stuff.