The ugly lovely city is no more.
Scattered all along a silent shore,
groups of survivors stand,
disbelieving, by a sea of sand.
They had no time to wave goodbye,
as the whole green bay merged smoothly with the sky,
all those familiar sights swept clean away,
in one instant, green transformed to grey.
Townhill, Sketty, West Cross, Mumbles
levelled, one inhuman shambles.
Morriston, Hafod, SA1,
St. Helens, the Liberty, all gone.
The Guildhall Green and Castle Square
all vanished in the watery air,
and all those picture postcard pubs where
Dylan used to drink, there’s nothing there.
Public grief for all to see
in your front room, on your TV,
you turn away, you do not even pause
to think, it’s different if the face is yours.
It does not take long before major disasters fade in the memory. After all, they all happen so far away, don't they?