I think it’s true this saying in my father’s homeland:
“To be born Welsh is to be born privileged, not with a silver spoon in your mouth but with a song in your heart and poetry in your soul.”
It’s how I feel anyway. Never wanted wanted to be rich, always want to sing, and poetry sometimes spills out of my most inner needs.
Not that it’s good poetry but here’s one I thought up last night.
Where will I search, how will find
a cure for the ache in my bones for my home?
Touches of rain, winter’s frost, summer’s sun pull me on when my hope is gone.
Where will I step, how will I know
the path that leads to my nameless home?
Glimpses of starlight, moonlight, daylight pull me through the darkest nights.
Where will I turn, how will I start
to fill to brimming my empty heart?
Sents of sage, wolf willow, wild rose beckon me follow my lonely nose.
Where will I rest, how will I rise
when I am so tired, so far from my home?
Whispers in the wind cheer me on,
hold me up when my strength is gone.