It was an iron hard January Sunday
before dawn when I left Bala – that one street,
Bible town – for the first time and forever,
a white fiver in the lining of my coat.
I shut up the rented, furnished cottage,
putting the key through the letter box.
I heard it rattle on the slate floor,
and walked down the dark track to the high street
with its single gas lamp. I had my father’s
cardboard suitcase for my clothes, my mother’s
worn music satchel for my poems.