Originally published by Nawr Magazine, Issue 2, Summer 2020
Oscillating yellow light at regular intervals make me blink,
Squint; it burns every time the sun is thrust forward at The other end of the tunnel. The stretch of land between the Border and Newport speeds by so quickly, I wish my eyes would Still burn by the time the train docks in, so I’d rub them And not have to look at the piss-poor eye sore past the glass.
Cardiff is no different.
I feel uglier and uglier and more and more at home
The further down the coast I go.
From Tata Steel a natural disaster drifts through The valleys that rise above Talbot town —
Dickensian, disgusting and deserving
Of something romantic written about it.
Through Neath, a thorough-fare town on the side of the motorway,
For Jacks to settle down when they’ve had enough.
Swansea is still shit even after all the money spent on Redevelopment schemes. There’s an independent cinema now, A Five Guys, and there’s less deaths on Wind Street!
The Gower, a heliograph of hope and comeliness —
A haven, a heaven, an honourable
Swamp in the middle of them and us.
Loughor Bridge, the beach, Parc Trostre, Pen Y Fan Quarry and Station Road; a mile of dive bars, drug spots, greasy spoons, and A Home Bargains. Too dangerous to walk through At night, my mam warns. She’s right, of course, but There are no taxis. I’d rather be mugged on the walk home:
The next stop is Burry Port.