CHILDREN OF DYLAN THOMAS:

 

We walked to Cardiff station , buzzing on the art we’d witnessed. 

Students we’d watched cavorting on the roof of Jacobs Market, 

swathed in curvy plywood forms, gyrating to the improvised rhythm 

of a giant marimba, the four-stick groove of a delicate girl 

discretely pouting, the click of expensive cameras & appreciative 

nods. 

We walked gentle smiling, laughing, glowing, a mini bus pulls 

up alongside, door slides open. Empty beer bottles cascade onto 

the road tiny glass glockenspiels, a torrent of drunk moms 

out on the lash, done to the nines. Tight dress, long & high, 

legs & heels & wild eyes. Towering friday night sculptures of 

precarious hair towers erupt from power brows, mascara lashes 

thick as dew hung spiderwebs, ruby lips kissed by the sour wind 

of putrified ale. 

 

(K)