Bard And Exile - Poem by Richard George
My forbear enquires
'Are there any Welsh people here? '
She means 'Does anyone speak Welsh? '
but Kilvey Hill fumes.
A Welsh cold shoulder whips and stings sub-Arctic.
Snug in Kidwelly Press
are an Englishman working in Chepstow,
a Southern Cross of expats
and a Londoner
on away-days from Camden to Cardiff.
Anyone can be wasp
to bara brith. Here in England
Welshness keeps its head down:
there's nothing like delirious, malachite Patrick's.
The editor harangues me
on the phone. 'George slew our dragon!
Speak the language, do you? '
To be Welsh
is to be part of a disagreement.
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