Owain Glyn Poems
I am sat on a bench, on the seafront, alone,
Just me, and the sea, and the old weathered stone.
Of course, there are tourists, who wander on by,
And silver winged gulls, as they dissect the sky.
There are fishing boats, plying their trade in the bay,
Whilst pleasure craft hoist up their sails for the day.
I can see the face painters and bead makers too,
As I watch pale-faced addicts who head for the loo.
A solitary policeman, whose aspect is stern,
As he dreams of promotion and what he might earn.
A parking attendant comes slithering by,
Every year it comes around, this season of goodwill,
When visitors we truly loathe, come round and drink their fill.
Relatives we haven't seen, since nineteen fifty four,
Discover where we're living, and come knocking at the door.
We end up going shopping, spending cash we haven't got,
Filling up the Credit Cards, as if we've lost the plot.
We buy for all and sundry, and then we buy some more,
As if we've quite forgotten, that it all needs paying for.