Owain Glyn Biography

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.
...

Would you give a gnome a home?
Sit him down on sculpted foam?
Find a pleasant shaded spot,
Not too cold, and not to hot.
...

Oh, this green and pleasant land,
Its clear blue seas and golden sands.
Its rolling hills and wooded vales,
Its constant rain and howling gales.
...

Christmas comes but once each year
I beg from each of you a tear;

A tear for the homeless whose bed is the floor
...

The night was clear, and still, and silent, air like razor-blades
The naked trees stood sentry, limbs outstretched, in dark charades
The ground, a pure white wilderness, sends out no invitation
But the traveler has need of none, he knows his destination.
...