To begin in the beginning

Subject: To begin in the beginning

To begin in the beginning.

It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible black, the cobble streets silent and hunched, courters and rabbits wood limping invisibly down to the sloeblack, slow black, crowblack, fishing boat-bobbing sea.
The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat therein the muffled middle by the pump and Town clock,
the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows weeds.
And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound Town are sleeping now.

And so the rhythmic cadence goes on, spell binding in its quiet ferocity, eloquently describing the mortals who live their lives in this Welsh town. People, as in all towns, having their tale to tell but not willing to tell it.
Dylan Thomas poem, beautifully articulated by the velvet tones of Richard Burtons voice the lilt of an accent amplifying the folk law and deceit implicit in the story. In the dark black, bible black night each person with his secret and only the gossip Thomas to tell us what goes on behind those lace curtains, in the dreams of those laying there, tossing and turning with their demons.
The Welsh, a nation of Celtic individuality have always been to their own. Fervently national, without the bitterness of the Scott's, they weave their nostalgic magic amidst the rain filled valleys and bleak open hills, happy to withdraw into their coven when the satanic influence from across the Bristol Channel raids their space with alien influence.
It's enough to remember the victories at Cardiff Arms Park. Having driven off the devil with their full throated song, each person fully aware of the importance of a tough tribal affiliation.

Mae hen wlad ft nhadau yin annwyl I mi
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tray mad
Dros ryddid collasant eu gwaed

Gwlad, gwlad pleidiol wyf im gwlad
Tra mor yin fur i'r but hoff bau
O bydded i'r hen iaith barhau