LinksDienstag, Januar 9, 2007, 20:38 - BÜCHER
Oh, isn’t life a terrible thing, thank God? (Polly Garter)
Nogood Boyo goes out in the dinghy Zanzibar, ships the oars, drifts slowly in the dab-filled bay, and, lying on his back in the unbaled water, among crabs’ legs and tangled lines, looks up at the spring sky: “I don’t know who’s up there - and I don’t care.”
And who brings coconuts and shawls and parrots to my Gwen now? How's it above?
Is there rum and laverbread?
Bosoms and robins?
Concertinas?
Ebenezer's bell?
Fighting and onions?
And sparrows and daisies?
Tiddlers in a jamjar?
Buttermilk and whippets?
Rock-a-bye baby?
Washing on the line?
And old girls in the snug?
How's the tenors in Dowlais?
Who milks the cows in Maesgwyn?
When she smiles, is there dimples?
What's the smell of parsley?
I am a draper mad with love. I love you more than all the flannelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world. I have come to take you away to my Emporium on the hill, where the change hums on wires. Throw away your little bedsocks and your Welsh wool knitted jacket, I will warm the sheets like an electric toaster, I will lie by your side like the Sunday roast... (Mr Edwards)
At the sea-end of town, Mr and Mrs Floyd, the cocklers, are sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt, and brown, like two old kippers in a box.
Alone until she dies, Bessie Bighead, hired help, born in the workhouse, smelling of the cowshed, snores bass and gruff on a couch of straw in a loft in Salt Lake Farm and picks a posy of daisies in Sunday Meadow to put on the grave of Gomer Owen who kissed her once by the pig-sty when she wasn't looking and never kissed her again although she was looking all the time.