I come from a house in the air with no garden,

but railings we’d climb without fear,

near the clanging shipyard and the sound of the hooter,

where sometimes we’d wait by the gates for my dad. 

I come from streets where the rag and bone man would

stand with his horse, and goldfish in bags. 

I come from high railway bridges, tenement buildings,

green budgies in cages and gipsy charm curses. 

I come from hand in hand to the river with dad,

past blue-buzzing pylons to buttercup banks,

sticks of wild rhubarb and quick sticklebacks. 

I come from prayers in assembly, clean shoes and

hanky, winning on sports day in navy knicker glory. 

I come from collecting the pension for old Mr Morgan,

diolch cariad as we brought home his shopping. 

I come from sugar butties, bubble and squeak on Mondays,

and sneaking downstairs at family parties. 

I come from a ghost in a frame on the wall, the infant

brother who lived and died before I was born,

the most beautiful child, my dad said, that he ever saw. 

I come from here: I come from the time before.

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