By Carolyn Pinet
I was born in Wales,
but my earliest memories
are of an RAF station in Ireland:
at the age of three, I ate
vast amounts of cheese,
pinched coins from my officer father's cadets,
and rode a large rocking-horse.
I had a wandering cat called Smokey,
the first of many furry friends.
Who knows why some memories
stay with you all your life
while others recede?
Who knows if I have embellished
recall with my own vivid touches -
or are these images dreamt?
But, yes, again I am on my black and white horse,
know its galloping rhythm,
as I hold hard to a blazing saddle.
If Ireland remains a waking dream,
let the music of Wales still charm my ears
as I cross a strip of sea.
Let me stir from my magic sleep
to stand in a Welsh garden
with my family after the war.
Forever I'm parked here looking out
to the gleaming, white-capped waves,
and I hear the tooting boats, the
echoing cries of the acrobatic, Welsh-Irish gulls.