If I could have written
For an eternity
In the language
In which I was raised,
Or walked the miles
Of the Swansea valley
Were the young foals
And the calves grazed.
I would have taken my leave
Of the White Horse Tavern
Where I drank my weight
In whiskey and beer,
And remained at the Boat House
In Laugharne forever,
To write my poetry
For only my Caitlin to hear.