Under wrinkles the lathes left sighs meander like the glen river from a welsh town in photographs curled fetal in livered knuckles, heart pounds his chest like bombs on Cornelius Street and evacuee feet on hills of Pen Y Mawr. Where sunlight lands as Chrysanthemums Dad walks backwards to Church away from me - his shoulder Giant to be healed by psalm and mosaic. Soon he’ll return to the lathes yet his prayers are for Pen Y Mawr and the glen that now pools in his wrinkles to run down the smooth part of his face, like evacuee feet of Pen Y Mawr, Cancer gave him his life and took away the Cancer.