There’s an echo at the heart of Cardiff
and a whitespace at its shoulder
where its heart migrated to.
A calm descends in an ampitheatre
where hearts once were shoulders
and a thick-skinned man sings
to no-one but me and of no accord,
nor accordion accompanying,
simply for the sound
to combat the coming of
tides – to cheer the going of hearts
and the echoes of hearts at the heart of Cardiff.
I think I like Cardiff.
It serves as a bit of a revelation, really. It’s a small city and I’m used to country or town.