Welsh should they ask me.
Should they ask me my name,
registration, nationality, I will say
not here. Not from the carriageway
or the unlit B-roads, the places hares
scatter to from headlamps on full-beam.
I could not tell them the names
of their towns or the grid reference
on an OS map. Nor could I guess
the martyrs their churches were called for,
the woman who trimmed the candles,
the last witch burned. The evening
is filling with voices, doors opening,
footsteps in the corridor nearing
with urgency. Somewhere a man laughs.
The television explodes into static.
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