My great grandfather, I was told

by an aunt at least a century old,

wore a tie of glass.

​

Each bead a memory wrought
of a thousand seafaring voyages,
some he commissioned,
some he carved,
most were blown by island folk
(dwelling on the Edges of the Known)

from lightening glass –
famed for a vacuum within
sucking up malicious green spirits
of the breakers and lagoons that appeared, prior to capture and extinction,
in the form of fret or drizzle,
rarely heavy rain.

​

My great grandfather, I was told
by an aunt at least a century old,
spoke High Welsh in a Rhondda twang.

​

He didn’t, she was wrong.
A meandering mistake

completely rooted
in his capacity for Mandarin

which, for this daughter aunt,

was indivisible

from Carmarthen tongue whereof

she’d views on many things,
this was one
the others concerned

angels, guitars, the keeping of pets

(though never a dog)
and the quiet music of souls.