There wasn’t much for a child to do
in the small bungalow and all you could see
from the bedroom window as we lay together
in the grey of the morning, were five
telegraph wires like a stave of music,
and as the birds perched upon them in
a seemingly arbitrary fashion, Nana hummed
the melody they described from pole
to pole in her soft Welsh contralto.
John H Davies
25th May 2011
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