We arrived early, Laugharne was still asleep.
Having not had breakfast, with both of us famished
we found a café with no proper menu and
I ordered a plate of rarebit, the real stuff,
to impress my Welsh son-in-law
and sent him photographic proof.
After food, sated, we skirted the castle ruins
and strolled the tide path to the boathouse
foolishly taking the vertiginous steps
and not the scenic village route
which would have been much easier.
With a sweep of superlative syllables
the Tâf estuary deftly carried our breath away
on a broadly curved brushstroke of an ebb tide.
I mistook a sea otter for a seal, but
Anna put me right with better eyes
as transfixed, we watched it flail
a broken kelp stalk like a cudgel,
making elaborate dives and swirls,
breaking cover like a large black button,
its brief flourishes an unexpected treat.
The morning heat had already roasted
the timbers of Dylan’s writing shed,
I peered through its pane like an urchin
sent in search of an errant father
down the pub, finding nothing
more than his discarded jacket
haphazardly robing an empty chair.
Before leaving I bought a well-carved owl
and a tiny wooden mouse,
hoping it would go down well with Bea
as our gift for stealing away for a few days.
Over iced cream, we listened
to the opening stanzas of Under Milk Wood
from a talking book in the car,
Burton’s sonorous tone spreading rich as honey.
© Graham R Sherwood 06/22