A pot of begonias
A shirt made of loathsome stuff
The sufferings of small boys
My ancestors in hovels and theirs in caves
A smoky fire, but warm enough
And adults mostly saints
And found too often in Welsh towns or perhaps Durham
As big as a mountain
Beyond the cottage garden
Coracles on the clear river
The cough and croup
Everlastingly green
From the open window
Good sweat like a badge
I caught a fleeting glimpse of someone back from a window
I listened to snatches of song
I paused on my way to market
I shrank and was six again, in flannel
It was an old, vaguely familiar song
It would go ill with us
Luxurious treatment.
Milk-churns by the million
More cows than I remembered
My mother's red hands
My shirt ruined and me not much better
Not where, but within the reach of my upbringing
Removing the irritants of domestic life
Renowned for warmth and endurance
Sacred beasts
She shook out a duster
Sometimes bringing forgetfulness
Tables of poultry, farm butters and rough bread
The ache and tone of melancholy
The causes of this are deep and dense and permanent
The town I was visiting
The unsealing of a past
This July morning
Those amiably blossomed wives
Thrashing rain
To look at it another way
To safeguard us from bronchitis
Tweeds and bright shawls
Untrained and effortless
Unworried women at the teat on three-legged stools
Winter Sundays come back at me
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