The Great Orm’s shadow,

high above the promenade

of Llandudno, the presence

of a once-thought God and worshiped such,

sits down in his latter days and chews

on the past, ruminating slowly

as his careful words take shape.

He enquires, sharp eyes blazing

as heavenly as the Sun at the centre

of the day’s disjointed topic

conversation, whether he thanked

me for attending my aunt’s funeral

on a cold and stormy wet day

eighteen months prior.

I told him I needed no thanks,