Outside, it rains and rains
Inside this institute,
this corris of coffin wood and slate,
I come across a window,
a saturated, steamed-up
glass of faces.
I stumble from picture
to number to name and back again,
trying to give their past
my kiss of life.
We exchange breath.
Cockily tipped caps tip further;
eyes swim behind porthole spectacles;
paintbrush moustaches bristle and twitch;
hair loosens and smiles widen.
There is a snigger and a sigh,
a boy’s deep hand upon my shoulder,
a girl’s wet breath upon my ear.
Till all the photographs have disembarked
and I am left alone on the gangway,
swinging over land and sea and air.
And still, with less remorse,
and more welsh wilfulness,
outside, it rains and rains.