Laura Potts



 Swansea Son

He is here in my autumn of age
the riverlight through windowpanes,
the small-hour laughter,
the slim-supple night
and moonlight eyes on the history page.

I remember his name that giggled the stars
when the stage of the world lit its lights for him,
and I, summer’s daughter,
he Swansea’s son
whose words in the plash of the water
we hear in the echoes of hills. Still

the ghost in my arms in the cracked black night,
still in stairwells the old grey light that writes
of the deer shaping the dales, that writes
of bonfire-bright old ale, that writes
of Death in His coat and tails.

You, man of words with the firefly eyes,
who didn’t stay to see the wild spring flowers
riot on the mountainside, who died
like a steeple that cradles its bones,
and whose voice now sleeps beneath Wales’ stones;

you, my lone man with the light, lord of all words,
whether I’m there with you or not, well, that’s alright.


Laura Potts, twice-recipient of the Foyle Young Poets Award, became one of the BBC’s New Voices last year. She received a commendation from The Poetry Society in 2018 and was nominated for The Forward Prize in 2019. Website:

Comments are closed.