For R.G.J.
An hour before he’d slept through the
service
where song had swelled in tune with
the sea,
which moved, as his blood once had,
to soften the outline of stone into
shape
though its core was as old and canny
as earth.
Rain battered rhythmically inland.
At the back end of a winter’s day
when the sun pitched dark in a Welsh
sea,
the chimney did what he’d hoped it
would;
puffed dust from the chapel onto the
wind,
shared him over known and steady valleys.
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