I had lost track of local working-class poet Dai 'The Rhyme' Davies recently.
I assumed he'd been off on one of his over-60s jaunts cruising the Med ( avoiding Egypt, Tunisia and others).
I almost literally bumped into him while walking down the hill to our Post Office. He nearly ran me over with his notorious shopping trolley.
I didn't recognise it at first, as he'd pimped it up for St. Valentine's Day in some style.
It was adorned in glitter, with several heart-shaped balloons tied to the handles.
As he almost crashed into me in his haste, I was struck by the absence of his trusty hound Vlad, whose head usually pokes out of the front pouch.
'Hiya Dai! Where you been?'
'Can't stop Mike! Gotta catch the bus! Come round for a cuppa tomorrow.'
And with that he shot off downhill, waving at the legendary John's bus-driver Ron to pick him up on the way up in order to go down to town ( a ritual in our village when it's raining).
So, I caught up with him the day after Valentine's.
Vlad was in the house, sitting by the fire and looking disconsolate.
Dai, on the other hand, was full of it.
' I'm in love Mike! Can you believe it? Me! 73 years old and with a dicky chest.'
'Who's the lucky lady Dai?'
' It's Iris Burnett and we met at this proper Writers' Club I'm attending now....they're all tidy poets not like some of your free verse Open Mic stuff. These ones all rhyme and she took to my poems straight off - 'Dai, she says, you don't half rhyme good. It's like nursery rhyme do rhyme, only for adults like.'
But, tell you what Mike. It weren't her stanzas caught my eye......No, it was her shopping trolley. It's purple and velvety and all's I wanted to do was smooth it.
She do love Vlad and all, but he can't stand her. He's jealous he is, aren't you Vlad?'
The Jack Russell gave Dai an indifferent look, but had lost all his bounce.
' I've given up writing them political limericks for now. All's I write is love poems and my trolley's packed full of 'em. Don't think I could read them at the Writing Group mind......too embarrassing.
They do call themselves the Merthyr Metres....clever eh? It's like a pun, plus you could do one of them alliterative tongue-twisters with it, like 'The Merthyr Metres had a meeting in Merthyr and wrote in metres.'
Like it Mike?'
I was delighted to see him so chirpy, but also keen to ask if he'd seen anything unusual on the pigeon front, as I'd heard reports of strange happenings down town.
' Funny you should say that Mike ......not only did this mad seagull burst one of my heart balloons, but I witnessed a really bloody terrible thing the other day.
I was shopping down town and had just left Crosswords with my ham when there was total pandy-bloody-monium opposite.
It was all kicking off at that Pet Shop....what's it called ,Pet Sounds? Heavy Petting?.....no, that's just my frame of mind.
Anyroad, all these cage-birds come flying outa the shop squawking and flapping.....parrots, budgies, canaries, the lot.....straight inta the faces of passers-by.
All the college students could do was reach for their phones and take pictures.....bloody dot-dot again!
Then, following all these birds come about half a dozen pigeons. Well, at first I thought they was crows coz they was all blacked-up like the army with night camouflage.
But they begun this weird coo-cooing like I never heard before. It sounded a bit like a chant at some demonstration.
Barkin', or what?'
'The RAF!' I uttered.
'What? Do you reckon they'd take on them pigeons?'
' No Dai, it was the RAF....the Revolutionary Avian Front. That Wayne-O Pijin has begun his actions and I've got a funny feeling this is only the start of it.'
This is Dai's love poem to his Iris which he composed on Valentine's Day and asked me to dot-dot for him ( he knows that she isn't online).
O MY IRIS!
Iris, O my Iris!
Never again will I go on the piss.
Soon as I saw your velvet trolley,
It made me feel so jolly.
The best trolley I ever seen,
It bulged with promises unseen.
You told me how you loved my lights,
How my dog was cwtshed up tight.
We were in the Writers' Club just a while
When we did share a warming smile.
Iris, O my Iris!
Just to say your name is bliss.
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