Laugharne Churchyard in 1954

Three thousand miles and nearly half a year
Away from a drab November afternoon, hysterics
Of friends forgotten, and also the plain derricks
Hoisting the grey coffin, I myself stand here

Savouring the early spring and Carmarthen mist,
Looking at humped soil and at the celandine
That grows on turned earth, flourishing between
Knotgrass and coltsfoot which the digger missed

While breaking clods. By the old stone wall
The primroses are showing, and on mud flats
The heron calls; the sea comes in, and rats
Gnaw at gifts the estuary brings them all.

This morning I walked with the gold-polled son
In search of imaginary cows, while bluebells
And violets distracted us, but all their smells
Were redolent of hospital. Suddenly I was one

Who thought of the death of him, my friend,
In a far country where he was a stranger, while
I knew it now as home. The child’s bright smile
Reflected the father’s face, the path would wend

Across his landscape, and the lonely crying birds
Yammered his background. Now, in this untidy
Churchyard, looking at sodden soil, I recall the mighty
Swell of that voice, the roll and thunder of words

In public places, but, more particularly, the bars
And friendly houses where we would meet and joke
About our situation, we, the perennially broke,
With, always, limericks and gossip about the stars

Of our own worlds, those whom success had loved.
Now, past the thin iron gates, past the wall-rue
And hart’s-tongue, success, my friend, has taken you
To that country which another poet had already proved

A source for fabulous tales. Damp now, I shiver,
Take a last look at the awkward hump of earth,
Recalling that your funeral gave rise to mirth,
And turn away, knowing certainly that I will never

Again stand thus. Time and fame will neatly trim
This rubbish heap, and this grave itself become
A symbol of the poet in his long-sought home.
And I, forgetting this, carry my memories of him,

My jester, drinking companion, and old friend,
Sharer of careless youth and slapdash middle-age.
Records preserve his voice, his words are on the page
To prove that this drear mistiness is not the end.