Throughout my life I have made much, perhaps too much, of being born of Welsh parents in England, and then being brought up in Cardiff.  The Welsh speaking stopped with my father's father, and none of my other grandparents could speak Welsh.
          Indeed with my mother's mother, her parents who were Welsh speaking as their first language, chose to stop speaking Welsh after daughter number three or four.  My grandmother was brought up speaking English and therefore could not communicate in Welsh with her own elder sisters!
          My father's father taught my great grandparents to speak English via the useful educational aid of The South Wales Echo!  I can never remember my grandfather ever speaking any Welsh to me.
          My parents only spoke English, I went to a school which taught Welsh (badly) only in the first few years of secondary and then you could 'drop' it.
          Living in Catalonia where the language is strong and is able to fight off attacks from Spanish, it is interesting to look at the situation in Wales where Welsh has been under threat for many years.
          All of the above adds to a sense that, for an English speaking person who regards himself as Welsh, there is a case to be answered about not speaking the language.  Questions of how far the language and Welsh identity are central to a consideration of nationality have been discussed with increasing intensity as English has made inroads into the Welsh speaking heartland.
          Identity is a theme which interests me and I have often written about who I think I am!
          The following poem was prompted by the receipt of an artificial daffodil bought to support the Marie Curie Cancer Foundation sent to me by my Welsh speaking friend Dianne.
          This has been a difficult poem to write and, as I always say, this is no more than a draft which may, or may not, make it to a book.  I am not sure that I have hit the central point that I was thinking about when the final draft was produced, but I think that it expresses some of the feelings and thoughts that I have.

Dydd Gwyl Dewi Sant

Four centimetres

at its widest point;

two centimetres proud;

six petals with corona, deep

and, a nice touch,

eight stamens – neat,

and almost real.

I wore it all the day,

and even moved it

from my shoulder to

the centre of my chest.

For show.  To show.  Too.

Is it a meaningful irrelevance

that, once a year, at least,

I illustrate a part

of what I think I am?

And is it more than

singing words

I do not understand

to that great tune?

When hiraeth prods

the confines of the

cwtch within my

head which says that

this poor dab is

tongue-tied to a single

form of speech

inside a foreign land –

a home from home!

It’s sad and it’s significant

I have looked up

each one of the italic words

to check they are correct.

The flower’s made to last

beyond a single use.

I’ll keep it in my

cuff-link box with

things I rarely use

to keep it safe.

And I will put the

money I should give for new

into the Oxfam tin I have.

And for a future day:

I will think once more

about words’ meanings and

the choices that they make.

I have deliberately left some things unexplained, including the title - but I think that is part of the sense of the poem itself.

On a personal note, I rather approve of any poem that manages to get Oxfam into it!