She has the kind of accent the English love to mock,
one of the generation whose words’d been forgot
but who remembered still where the strap had hung
that taught the children to renounce their mother tongue.
She grew up to be the blacksheep of the flock,
worried almost to distraction by her lot,
this proverbial innocent who wanted to be good
but defended her one lamb as fiercely as she could.
If there really was green land beyond the hill
where mild and humble souls could always eat their fill
and play harps to hearts’ content and harmoniums too
she’d get a first-class ticket there and never queue.
I love that singing voice with its Morriston lilt,
it quavers but with the rocksteady trust on which
churches are built.