My favourite Welshman is not the Max Boyce
Or even Tom Jones, despite his rich voice
He’s not Richard Burton or Ivor Novello
He’s not RS Thomas, a very fine fellow.
No, my favourite Welshman is suitably tall
His name is a mystery to no one at all
He was recently forty, and still is today
A good friend indeed I’m lucky to say
And so when he asked me to knock out some prose
I reluctantly shelved my dum-di-dum beat
And scattered these words (but not at your feet):
He once led our troop of offspring
Up Cavehill where we stopped near the whins
To picnic and catch our breath
Taking in the surprising aroma of coconut.
Another recollection…
The very same man on his wedding day
Bursting with energy and enthusiasm
Keen to create the perfect icing
For his wedding cupcakes.
His passion for books and music and nature
Shared with such vigour that you get swept up
In the tidal wave and carried along on a hugely enjoyable surf ride of exuberance.
odespinner 