Darkness over ripe Welsh meadows,
las vegas, fretted
by strings of fairy lights, solar, blue,
along May hedges, elder-greening, blossom-bursting,
by cigarette glow,
by crackling and hissing of logs from the firepit –
where folks huddle warmed by blankets, chat, whisky.
Well met by moonlight, proud incarnation,
thrusting the King’s torch, rocking ‘n rolling,
owning that suit, spritelike guest
at this night’s nuptials, starblest,
incandescent, lighting up
the loin-lost gaze of his admirers,
who have seen a vision, divine
and otherworldly, (in fact from Malta),
shimmying gifts – lyric, liquidity
of hip, of lip, filling full his luminous leathers.
Now, far from home, awaiting his team,
he shivers in built-up shoes –
I AM NOT COLD; I HAVE PERFORMED.
Elvis takes his leave, cash, applause,
his black truck back,
not loving us tender yet still weaving
some chill, silvery spell,
as tail-lights reveal
sequins shed on bluebell, cow parsley and nettle
at the field gate,
our lane pitted with stardust.