Come To Sunny Prestatyn
Laughed the girl on the poster,
Kneeling up on the sand
In tautened white satin.
Behind her, a hunk of coast, a

Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes trav
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;

For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small—statured cross—faced tribes
And cobble—close families
In mill—towns on dark mornings

Tired of a landscape known too wel
The deliberate shallow hills, the
Flying past rocks; tired of rememb
The village children and their nau
He abandoned his small holding and

Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting—place,
The woods we have found to walk?
Is it a mirage or miracle,

Beyond the dark cartoons
Are darker spaces where
Small cloudy nests of stars
Seem to float on air.
These have no proper names:

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling
A hedgehog jammed up against the b
Killed. It had been in the long g
I had seen it before, and even fed
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive

The little lives of earth and form
Of finding food, and keeping warm,
Are not like ours, and yet
A kinship lingers nonetheless:
We hanker for the homeliness

The cloakroom pegs are empty now,
And locked the classroom door,
The hollow desks are lined with du
And slow across the floor
A sunbeam creeps between the chair

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat
And that faint hint of the absurd—