My Sŵn
by Tim Snell
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This city of ideas.
This fertile Gwlad! garden of dreams has burgeoned
under the nurturing noise of the
lamps and amps and filigree nights of sound.
Sŵn.
Tidy.
And What is that but the warmest sound?
Croeso cynnes i chi i gyd!
to Fourteen hundred friendly feet
tip tapping
on the floors and doors
of cafes dim and brimming with the new Folk.
And see the patient plotting promoters plans unfolding
records broken
and new careers dawning
in and out of the dark and sweat of this first Chapter.
And fast the night
the Saturday morning headaches come
Buzzing! with the hum
of far off generators
for the music makers
rightly crowned
in Bay, rooted, magnifence,
by windows, bay windows,
In rainbows, we planned.
and “never heard of these before” they say
and they never looked back again.
