Baptised by Vikings and anchored like Rome in a brine basin of seven snapdragon hills, spills this marble town and city of laughter.
A pother of ship sails, a smelting brume, Copperopolis, coal harbour, metal morphosis to fire-clay, alum, tin-plate and porcelain.
To the coffee-ringed poems in the ruins and scrawling ashes of the Kardomah Cafe.
A fog sits snug in Swansea Bay Figures emerge cold from the grey
Shaking like fever and fearing their doom, Watchful of shadows in deepening gloom
But as the sun burts out the shadows sway, looking across Swansea bay
Their ranks slowly swelling as they follow a path that generations before them also had trod.
Some place to enter, enter into some place
Following a habit repeated down the centuries. Nature and nurture combining to guide them inwards.
High above the blitzed streets The winking lights of Cwmdonkin, Constitution and Clifton Row