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| I want to go to the Dylan Thomas boathouse
I want to go to the boathouse. I want to go to the Welsh boathouse. A museum now, it has been smeared with the grease of dirty hands, sticky coca-cola hands, juicy hamburger hands, shiny noses and the farts of big American tourists rubbing another original layer off the floor and walls. They come here to worship, this shrine, this white and blue house, its estuary and the shed where he used to write, smoking cigarettes, opening rows of bottles, not writing a lot- That is where I want to go. Where they visit the grave and Caitlin's grave. She had no time to listen to his poem while cooking cockles holding a baby. How will it feel going to the boathouse? Perhaps like going to a place where someone's grave used to be. |
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