There are too many Welsh people in England

(With a nod to our little Aussie friend!)

~

To sleep like this, with one hand stuck in the pages of a book, the index finger pointing to a single word. And in the morning, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you would find the word gone, just a clear and bright empty space. 

~

"Which dead language would you like to learn, Latin or Welsh? Latin will help you in medicine."

And Welsh?

"Welsh will help you in forgetting"...

~

Scenes from the old country, when you were young. The streets and back alleys registering the slow decay, the huge black wooden gate with its peeling paint, that had to be heaved open, sliding on its rusted rollers.

In the garage, where we played cricket on Sundays, thick, heavy sacks of coal that we used for 'tracking' and cartons of malt vinegar. That is how you remember, brokenly:

this weaving
even where it was broken
was always perfect.

You say 'garage' but in a former time it was something else. What something now is is determined by how you use it, approach it.  

the garage that had floated to us
like an ark from the days of horses
and I stood at the corner and listened..

to an old man, with old words, his story deepened by our listening. I suppose we never really belonged there, have never belonged anywhere, I guess. But still, and still, after so much time has passed, the blood still comes to a frenzy when it thinks of England shaking.

{lines from W.S. Merwin}