August was always Llandudno. Great Orme/Little Orme, Happy Valley,
someone on telly at the pier end. Half board at the pale green Brig-y-don,
not too posh but central, opposite the bandstand. 8pm Wednesday, concerts,
them black-jacketed, us watching from the bay, like royalty. Welsh words.
Who could say Llanfairpwllgwyn all the way to gogogoch.
How we forgot from year to year
what Brig-y-don meant.
Mornings down in the basement, tots of 'proper' orange juice to savour
like communion wine before small bowls of cornflakes, then the platefuls
brought by smudge-eyed girls in nylons, skirts and thin school blouses.
How they'd been heard up late last night comparing parents, boyfriends.
How they did the butter curls. Don't talk with your mouth full.
High tide, how we felt cheated
by that stony strand.