To awake to the sound of wind whistling
Between the chimneys of a coastal town
And the scream of seagulls as rain beats down
On slate rooftops and cast iron guttering
To rise and to hear milk bottles tinkling
On doorsteps where delivery men frown
Awaiting payment for bread white and brown
Drawing on cigarettes and muttering.
 
To thrill to the call when Sunday bells ring
In an old stone built church that stands nearby
And join with the worshippers as they sing
Praise and thanksgiving to our God on high
To be home again where memories cling
Home where the heart is under a Welsh sky.