Listen...

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I decided not to go down the couscous route tonight [cf last night's scribble], as it would produce too much food for a solo diner: Jane being away for a few days; so I've opted for a lamb steak, marinated in lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, oregano and white wine; which I'm going to roast on a high heat and serve as a base to road-test the new harissa I've just bought. Whether or not I include a staple of some kind is moot, as my options are limited due to a depleted larder, and anyway, there's nothing wrong with just eating a simple meal of meat and a condiment, in my book.

However, the thing I want to remark on tonight, is pictured above: I was rummaging around some book-boxes - I still have loads so stored, despite having extended my shelving - and came across my copy of 'Portrait of Dylan', Rollie McKenna's excellent photographic memoir of the poet, published in 1982. A friend of Thomas, and an artist whose chosen subjects were often poets, McKenna produced some of the most intimate portraits of Dylan and Caitlin Thomas in their relatively short time together. Thomas died in 1953 whilst on tour in the US, and was buried in his home town of Laugharne, here in Wales.

Tucked in the back of the book was a newspaper front page which I'd saved, from a copy of The Independent, back in August 1994, relating the final reuniting of Caitlin and Dylan in St. Martins, Laugharne after her death that year. Their deaths were over forty years apart, and her life in the interim was more than complicated to say the least, and well documented; but the simple act of re-reading this memorial report that I'd simply forgotten about, sent shivers down my spine; just as these lines from the Under Milk Wood prologue always do: 'Time passes. Listen. Time passes. Come closer now.'

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