She’s a bit better
now that they’ve banned her
from buying alcohol
in the Town Centre.
Has to walk to the next village
five mile away
and tends to stop for the night
in an old horsebox
Aye, she still sleeps in the old cemetery,
no, the baby’s not there,
they don’t bury people there anymore,
it’s down the Crematorium Field in Margam.
My heart goes out to her, mun,
it really does.
I try and leave her pasties
when I can, you know,
but we’re all skint these days, innit.
It’s when she comes out with that
‘Ble Mae Cwtch’ nonsense,
it does me in.
It’s not the smell,
I can put up with that.
It’s the shuddering sobbing
in your arms,
I swear to God the heartache
passes straight from her into you.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and…
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