For Gaenor

So now forever there is a small house
somewhere in Wales near the water
with a back garden trimly kept
rejoicing in one tiny plum tree
(white blossom in the early spring)
and inside the house welcome for strangers
for workers from the cold. Like in ancient Greece,
like all nations that still cherish hospitality.
The suckling lamb, the fruits of the earth are offered:
delicious, delectable. And fresh-baked brown bread.
Good there are still friends who make a home
somewhere on a Welsh hillside
with a burning coal fire beside which
a shining cat sits purring.
Friends who know about poetry and tradition.