What The Welsh And Chinese Have In Common

What does a man take with him

as he walks to town

holding a chicken by its feet?

The barren hen clucks as they pass his aunt

wilting like a willow against her fence.

The rail in her gate he replaced

after his cart rammed into it,

he would name "folly of youth."

That one left unpainted would be "pay attention."

Now he begins to swing the bird

in time to his gait.

When he speaks in the market, everyone will know

the valley where he was born, clouds brimming its ridge.

He almost sings but instead

rolls his tongue in the cradle of his teeth.

His song clings to him

in the close way his clan herds

their words behind their lips,

in the tight way the valley

cages language and family in its fist.

When the wind slows

at Cardiff and at Canton,

the hard sea with its grey mist haunts the coast.

Even at the pier where the boats cast off,

the family voice continues.

Hearing the voice,

he cannot miss the part

of himself that drifts

back to that sturdy dock.

Above the harbor, the valley turns toward an inward speech;

salt air filters into his lungs to preserve him.