A Bible used so much it never needed dusting. A rocking chair that moves in silent motion, beholding the Dad no longer there.
As footsteps tread a path of grace that lights the way ahead, the smile upon your Saintly face across my life is spread.
Grandmother, family-proud and so of house, with hob black-leaded, glistening like a raven's wings and brass like gold untarnished.
I am writing this because I love you, so that sustained within your warming heart our future days remain locked-to this simple message.
May you, my friend, find God sends comforting warmth, to speed you back to your rekindled and welcoming hearth.
Poets write the words you have heard before but in a new sequence.
She passed our way and we are proud to have loved her. She cast a light that made our path the easier to tread.
The failure of Socialism since 1945 is that whilst encouraging us all, the creators of wealth, to produce less through strikes, it has caused us all to demand a higher level of our own product.
To be born in Wales, not with a silver spoon in your mouth, but, with music in your blood and with poetry in your soul, is a privilege indeed.
Wales is an old land with wounds that weep in hills. They wept before in the bodies of men and in the hearts of women and time will never heal them.
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