Byron Beynon/ Poetry Fall, 2015

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This is the rain my father knew.
My mother would see him to the door
as he left for work
at the tinplate plant.
A worker for all seasons,
his continental shift
sounded like a dance,
a geological movement
over a quarter of a century;
mornings, afternoons, nights,
two of each as he’d wait
for the one weekend holiday per month,
the stop-fortnight of summer
as July closed and August began.
His coil of days,
the overtime for extra pay
inside a fork-lift truck.
I still see and hear him leave,
his uncomplaining silence
I search as the tinplate shifts.



I watch the sea’s glint of blistering light
mirrored towards a matured rock’s

anchored surface, the faded stone with parched hills
moored in an active Aegean.

Coins found and graced
by Dionysus’s purple grapes,

Demeter’s corn of yellow,
as Poseidon’s dolphins leapt

to the music of Apollo’s lyre.
To-day’s mortal scene of houses,

cuboid, small and white,
gauge their narrow streets

seething with summer’s tourists,
caught in a sunburnt bottleneck.
bb rsrByron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales.  His work has appeared in several publications including London Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, Cyphers (Dublin), Kentucky Review and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets).  A Pushcart Prize nominee.  Recent collections include Nocturne in Blue (Lapwing Publications, Belfast) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).


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