Dylan's Birthplace


Here I stand at No.5 Cwmdonkin Drive
in the seaside shipping city of Swansea,
a house — unless you know its past — 
that will ring no ship's bells in your heart,
will cause no waves in your un-Welsh heart
will change nothing in your dreams of seahorses.

Here was born a boy, a Welsh boy
with hair like waves in Swansea Bay
on a windswept stormy day — 
who entered this world just here above my head 
his hair not blue like the sea — but yellow
like the light on the sand, turning mousy-red, as if for Wales.

A boy constructed of words, gestures, and voice
who listened like a doorboy at his father's knee
to the swish of Shakespearian pages turning — 
tippy-toed, he stood on the upstairs landing
craning to see ships sail away o'er the rooftops
and then lay asleep above all snug in his bed.

He ran carefree in the sprawling park
as a cowboy, an Indian, a Jungle Jim
and drank from the chained cup of life within
as a pirate or some such desperado
fought manfully with other boys and words
and straightened all into dancing lines.

But that was one hundred years ago, not now.
Now I stand here and admire his boyhood world — 
and my six-year-old daughter sits inside his walls
vaguely understanding why she is here,
other than to hear her father spout words,
but also to catch a one-hundred-year-old echo of his.