my mother wears willow branches for hair; yellow and wispy in autumn she clings to herself, sighing as she watches over the weary sea. her children are gone but the waves are not and unlike me they always come ashore.

well he stands straight on the mounds of someone's fathers. "cymru yn byw am byth" i say but he can only gaze at the willow-haired dane flirting with the sea at aberystwyth. so this is youth, father, this is youth but your long legs span cairns guarding asphodel and moss. we defile them but this is no longer my home; i leave on the morrow.

but she smiles.
she smiles so bright and his shadowed face twitches at seafoam and starlight. this was my home once but father's well it burned to ash that danced upon winds and settled in the bosom of the sea.

but she smiles.
she smiles so bright at the thought of the morning.