Ble Mae Cwtch (Aww, She’s Just Lonely, Mun!) by Paul Tristram

She’s a bit better
now that they’ve banned her
from buying alcohol
in the Town Centre.
Has to walk to the next village
five mile away
and tends to stop for the night
in an old horsebox
halfway back.
Aye, she still sleeps in the old cemetery,
no, the baby’s not there,
they don’t bury people there anymore,
it’s down the Crematorium Field in Margam.
My heart goes out to her, mun,
it really does.
I try and leave her pasties
when I can, you know,
but we’re all skint these days, innit.
It’s when she comes out with that
‘Ble Mae Cwtch’ nonsense,
it does me in.
It’s not the smell,
I can put up with that.
It’s the shuddering sobbing
in your arms,
I swear to God the heartache
passes straight from her into you.

paul smoking - Copy

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

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