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Paul Groves

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Bygerall

According to his biographer Paul Ferris,
Dylan Thomas completed only six poems
during four years at the Boat House, Laugharne.


If I could go back there to see
Dylan in his locale
I’d pat him on the arm and say
“Up your work rate, pal.

Here’s country peace. The weather’s nice.
Garner the asphodel
and write some more. Take my advice –
keep out of Brown’s Hotel.”

His shining eyes, retroussé nose,
somewhat podgy hands
and tousled hair would, I suppose,
not change at my commands.

His slightly jaunty air would take
him from the Writing Shed
down into town, though he might make
the Cross House Inn instead

his port of call. I’d walk with him
this side of summer rain
and he’d talk of some Hunchback film
now on in Drury Lane.

Despite myself, I would be won
over by his charms.
We’d enter, from uncertain sun,
the Corporation Arms.

I’d buy the first and second round
(“I’ve left my cash behind”)
and there, both puerile and profound,
we’d wallow and unwind.

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