On that day, was it pelting down with rain like it always did in Bedwelty?
Or was the September sun filtering into the room? Perhaps the radio was on with Jim Reeves
singing one of mum’s favourite songs. Could you hear voices coming from the kitchen
as Nanna kept busy,
flapping the welsh cakes on the griddle ?
I imagine your gaze falling upon my small form, my mother scooping me up, holding me tight.
Did you notice the creases of anguish in her face as she let you have one more sip of whisky?
Did you give me one last kiss when she carried me away? Did you know it was the last day?
Resting now, on top of the hill, overlooking the valley.
I’ve tried to find you, but the grass has grown too high.