Mrs Jones Little - Mrs Jones Big,
Annie Cwm and Annie Fach, down the
twmps - back of the gwt.
Telephone rings, the antipodes, Australia,
a surprise. We speak of family, discuss
theology, teach and learn. Ardent
Calvinists, a hated breed.
She can finish my thrust before I
can articulate properly, we spoke of
Mam, perfect love and family
a genealogy full of skeletons.
Her youngest grandchild, a gem
of a boy, much like his passed on
grandfather, brick wall strong.
The house is sold, three months of limbo
broken with her call. A new phone, just to
hear my voice, from the bottom of the
garden so as not to wake Rebecca. She
whispers, Don't phone, they are working,
need their sleep. I understand,
but I don't have her number.
She longs to hear my voice, the lilt that sings,
that reminds her of the valleys, she is tired of
nasal drawls, she wants my sonorous tones,
my deliberate diction, my extended vowels,
my peculiar lexicon.
The roof-over-a-pig sign in Chinese means
home, in Wales it is a roof over a blazing
coal fire to keep out the rack of consumption.
There are dragons there.
She is thirty year homesick, when she does
visit she pines for her family. We dare not
tell her it is snowing, she cries so, we say
it might snow, but she knows from the
Huffington Post, she knows.
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