Free at least, free at last Seem to be the faced scores. Scratched striations of you The many faceted distant you. And the faded echoes Of that dragged part Of a dreaded past. The screech of another Increasingly sublime Passage if time. It may all Llanyyffy seem A little bit Welsh. It is all Welsh to me, Yes all a bit Edward, Backward living, looking. Loving to be, Leaving it too latent. An ongoing, eastern loneliness. Uneven, believe me, Even me. ©2019 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.