Porch Sitting

I have had many wonderful inventions, but I always pay for it in the end. The train, that is how I lost my leg, but I don’t have to walk so far anymore. Perhaps its all for the best. Or perhaps I am in denial and really I am a cursed man hanging by a thread. With my history that is perhaps more likely, which is why I stopped inventing things and moved to this little hut in this vast forest. It’s safer this way, though I still get ideas. I have one that someday men will fly as the birds do, only mechanically. If I were ever to climb into one of those things, though, it would fall from the sky. That is why I sit here. There’s no magic left in inventions, only curses. That is why I sit here, on my porch, in my rocker, and smoke my grand daddy’s pipe. It’s safer this way.

I’m surprised you managed to find me, not many folks come by this way. Don’t know why myself, I’m always up for conversation. You look like a pleasant enough young man, why don’t you sit yourself down for awhile, right there, that’s nice. You remind me of a fellow who was here I don’t know how many years back. He looked just like you, all done up for a nice hike in the forest, with a rucksack much like yours. I got it just inside the door let me show you. Don’t you move, now. Well, well, let me see…this must be an older model, but the basic principle’s the same. He’s got a notebook in here with drawings you wouldn’t believe ‘til you see ‘em. Have a look. He sure did like drawing those plant’s and mapping out this territory. He tried to tell me that this here property that my hut sits on belongs to the government, and that I have to, what was his word, relocate. Damn fancy speaking government men. Yes, sir, you do remind me of him a lot. Well, you certainly look thirsty, just like he did. He jumped at my offer for a cool glass of water. Yes sir, I think I’ll get you that drink right now, you just sit tight. What’s that you say? No, don’t worry yourself about that, dirt sometimes just forms a mound right naturally like that. The rain and what not—it sure rains a fierce sum around here. Looks like a grave? Bless my sainted aunt, what a notion! What would I have use for a grave for? You just sit nicely comfortable, and I’ll get you that cool glass of water. Perfect for the body after a rough hike, nothing better I know. Hey now, why are you running so fast? You’ve already got a rucksack! Thieving son of a—Well, I’ll be darned.

Dylan Thomas' Child's Christmas in Wales

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped
hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased,
with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother
knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."