Dylan Thomas's Holiday Poem by Mr P. Turberville

In the spark of a new idea,
the words rhythmic patterns are clear,
each one rippling with excitement in a tear.
To the sea-sequined waves of sound,
which fall over gold-plated ground,
there are swashbuckling poets whose lines rebound.

For what seems like an age,
there is the sun's searing rage,
heated up in a moment in the ribcage.
There are times when lyrics are embedded in dust,
washed away in a silver rust
and taken for heart-beaten lust.
Dreamt up by someone drunk on power,
there is no lasting hour,
no watches or sundials clocking the weather-worn shower.