It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters’-and- rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishing boat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.
Well, I don’t think we’ll be bothering with Wales this year.
What do you think Arthur dear?
Dunno love, never bin.
Is that Welfare Hall a Premier Inn?
It’s mentioned here in the novel
Apparently it’s a fucking hovel
And all the pubs playing Tom Jones’ singles.
You’ll never get me near velvet dingles.
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Bible-black and congregation silent.
(Hiding from Tom Jones, no doubt)
You’d be wise to
It takes a genius like Ms. Moist to make Dylan Thomas accessible to the masses.
Anything she can do about Bob Dylan?
We’ll see Guap – it may take a few days!
Nicely translated. I think El Guapo has a good idea about Bob Dylan.
I agree Michelle – Ms Moist has been approached!
Bravo!
Hermione’s got the rhythms and cadence down, and I think maybe she’s the poet we need for DT’s 100th birthday later this year. Maybe she can wear a sausage on her head!
Sadly the tilt in her neck due to heavy cider drinking mitigates against any form of head gear Debra.
Beautiful, lyrical, and probably better appreciated if I had ever read Dylan Thomas. But now I don’t have to.