Bombazine Cloaks

The words that first caught me were ‘bombazine black’. 

Truth is, there’s not much that’s blacker than that.

Not the smooth inner crease of a Jackdaw’s wing 

or anthracite chipped from the deepest mine.

Not the ring of a bell that warms of the plague, 

not war, nor grief, nor a man in his prime 

cut down by the sound of  babanau crying. 

.

Not the tar running stream of bubbling hot 

hindsight that comes in a dream we forgot 

or the sky in December at three in the morning 

all ‘starless and bible…’ and lacking in hope

like mourning clothes made out of bomb… bomb… bombazine cloaks.

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Translation.

Babanau (Welsh) pronounced babban eye – Babies (English)

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Note: This one was inspired by the literary adjudicator for Llanwrtyd Wells Eisteddfod 2025 who commented that my entries for the poetry category (placed 2nd and 3rd) put her in mind of Dylan Thomas poems.

I hope I’ve not done him a disservice by stealing a few words from Undermilk Wood and painting them darker.