As usual Uncle Tacko is trundling

his Flea Circus to the end of the pier,

and the Island Princess is embarking

for a trip up the Straits and around

Ynys Seiriol with its nesting puffins,

its elderberry woodland purpling.

And the dogged chambers of my heart, open

and close, open, close, like an harmonium.

All the familiar sounds – the Flea Circus crowd,

the paddlers in the pool, the revellers

on the hotel lawn next door – carry

to this balcony like paper lanterns.

Who would have thought that, like war babies

from Surbiton holidaying per annum

always in Bournemouth or Bognor Regis,

we would count the benches here every year,

value each of the stanchions of the pier,

the stones of the castle, the courthouse, the gaol.

I see you crossing the Green towards the house.

The medicated chambers of my furtive

heart are humming, like a Welsh male voice choir,

‘The more I see you as years go by’.

Note: Uncle Tacko’s Flea Circus: http://www.prom-prom.com/acts/uncle-tackos-flea-circus/