john tripp

In the National Museum

I went there on Tuesday
sat lunchtime, to look
at the Impressionists. Their colours
could take me into an old French summer
and let Cardiff sink in the Taff.
I never told her I went there
because she despised arty men.

Outside, at the top of the steps,
I took off my deerstalker
and hid my sandwich-tin behind a pillar.
Inside, under the big dome and high balcony,
there was dignity in the marble hush.
I adjusted my steel-rimmed specs
for the feast ahead. Then I saw the back of her
with an arm through some man’s
going up the wide stairs. I turned back
to the revolving doors, scared,
thinking I would strangle her later.
She was wearing her best dress
and her hair was like a flame.



it strikes me i have little by way of welsh poetry on here. i do know who dylan thomas is but outside of him if anyone's got any suggestions, welsh or english, i'd like to hear them