Lyric poetry is always in some sense about love, because love is at the base of every emotion. But love does not have to take place in rose-gardens or on beaches. Here, finally, are two love-poems, one about the sun and one about football. I hope you'll agree that Idris Davies doesn't betray the truth of his vision. On the contrary, it is love that makes it complex and morally troubling.
Love is a way of seeing.
The sun brings glitter to the long street roofs And the crawling promontories of slag, The sun makes the pitwheels to shine, And praise be to the sun, the great unselfish sun, The sun that shone on Plato's shoulders, That dazzles with light the Taj Mahal. The same sun shone on the first mineowner, On the vigorous builder of this brown village, And praise be to the impartial sun. He had no hand in the bruising of valleys, He had no line in the vigorous builder's plans, He had no voice in the fixing of wages, He was the blameless one. Mile after curving mile, the valley towns are dim and dumb, The river shines and frets, and turns abruptly east, The stars are high above the smooth green plain, The smug green belt between the coalfield and the sea. And in the winter evening Tiger Bay WAS Tiger Bay, And the moon rose over the Severn Sea.