Colin Bell
The Bus to Brynsiencyn

I lost my way that Friday night on the country bus to a party in Brynsiencyn.
A remote farmhouse, home to friends, flower children all.
The thrill of possibilities.
Long haired days with bells.
Beautiful
people
set
free.

Free
to
blossom
in private.
Sunflowers
allowed to grow wild.
Liberation in golden corn.
I forget that party but remember the journey
when I talked about favourite films with a curly-haired man who got off at Dwyran.