she was a lily among the thorns in that old town,
where the dead snake by through corners and
cracks among the living; where, in shops and
tangled gardens, women lean to each other
and whisper, so silently, to comment on
vices and people, past and present.

"calla lily," i want to call her, she who whispered
about the meaning of art, the sickly passions of
a forgotten love, the awakening of the senses in
the wake of summer. yn ysgol a siopau, we spoke
of the life we could have had, if only those mediaeval
walls did not surround us.

on nights like this, calla lily, i want to say so much,
but can only find my voice in faint whispers that,
though i wish it not, speak for me, not because
of me. on nights like this, calla lily, i want to reach
for your hand, but you are so far away, too far
from me.

i am a thorn among the lilies in this new town,
where the men and women, in their pressed black
suits, bicker in french over their morning coffee;
where, in cafés and metro stations, women lean
to each other and sigh, so silently, then rise and
nod as if they share the same secret burdens. i
am not yet one of them, calla lily; i hope you
are proud.

yn parciau a llwybrau, i think of you when i smoke
and drink my nights away in this bustling city of
men without dreams, people without life. but in
the hush of gwynedd's winter, when the streets
empty after dusk and the ghosts of living men
hover around the windows of their apartments,
i will find you again.

Yn ysgol a siopau; yn parciau a llwybrau – in school and shops; in parks and alleys. Welsh.

For Meghan. I shall not see thee again. Thou shalt ne'er see this, if fortune have her way. I am loath to not bid thee farewell with my verse, achos rydw i'n dy garu di.

17 July, 2007.