Friend, my enemy, i call you out. you, you, you there with a bad thorn in your side. you there, my friend, with a winning air. who pawned the lie on me when he looked brassly at my shyest secret. with my whole heart under your hammer. that though i loved him for his faults as much as for his good. my friend were an enemy upon stilts with his head in a cunning cloud. -dylan thomas
Now behind the eyes and secrets of the dreamers in the streets rocked to sleep by the sea, see the titbits and topsyturvies, bobs and buttontops, bags and bones, ash and rind and dandruff and nailparings, saliva and snowflakes and moulted feathers of dreams, the wrecks and sprats and shells and fishbones, whale-juice and moonshine and small salt fry dished up by the hidden sea.
One christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices i sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that i can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when i was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when i was six.
And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, jim's aunt, miss. prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. jim and i waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. she said the right thing, always. she looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "would you like anything to read?