A Poem from Alan Martin


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I remember Martha, homesteading homely Martha;

her wondrous happy calm

mixed with fortitude and wellie boots.

And then there was Gordie, her good old boy,

always ready with a quip.


Where are they gone, these artless provincials,

what were they all about?

What kept them up?


I remember Martha’s house,

the house where the road ran out,

and where the electrics made to pass

at the speed of light,

down at our nine house village.


And we walked the mile

under a starlit void

to sit with an oil lamp,

under plaster cast roundels

bought for a shilling or two

from travelling folk

at Portfield Fair.


Perhaps the genius

of guileless minds

holds a ninth sense

of nothingness

and its indivisible peace.


Plainness is pretty

when your being is easeful.

So, skipping gaily aside from the need to strive,

or to dance on that Strictly

in sequins and hope;

then will I dance,

dance to the humdrum,

dance to my own beat,

dance to the vernacular

in the wild Welsh lands.

Carw, October 21.


Alan Martin is a Pembrokeshire native who has worked in several UK locations as an engineering inspector. He now lives on a smallholding in mid-county with his wife and son.

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