in the younger days when he was green
under the sun he strode boldly, and in
his veins there flowed three parts blood
to one part whiskey — all was faehrye
without need of trying, for the forgotten
spirits of the hills and rills haunted him
sober and saturated alike indifferently
what was liquor and what was welshman
perhaps not even the poet knew in his
fits of fancy and pain-inspired musings
when apples glowed green like flames
as they graced the chimney pots of grimey
london houses where girls of slender
means dwelled in decay, disappointed
and frayed at the edges like he was
in reality despite his poetic splendour
having drowned his sorrows finally
with himself in a village far from home
when triumph was tainted by dreary
november air, no bleeding trees or
shining saint david’s flowers to sing
his praises once more when came the
end — a year short of two-score he
sank into silence, strangers chanting
dirges for the green that came to dust
