Where Eaton & Bryn-y-mor meet, the magpie flies with Swansea on her wings,
where the red-haired child rides his bike and the Corgi walks his master,
where chess pieces move slowly across the board, where I watch Wales,
where you are a guest in my reality, where lovers spend a rainy day in bed,
and the poet writes.

Where Eaton & Bryn-y-mor meet is now and now and now, no then or when,
where tea and fags are the diet of the day, where girls with eyes as dark as coal sway,
where Kilvey hill looms as a lord,  where policemen are named after saints,
deliver the tourist safely to the door, and where Welsh boys return from war
carrying there to here on their boots

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