Canzoni

"You alright?"
I rise from the chair, the smell of vinegar thick,
Two pensioners still arguing over which rugby kit was best in ’86.
Crosskeys late lunch, autumn dark,
I zip my coat, step out — parked by the door:
her pink wellies in my mind like punctuation marks.
Time to get her. Daycare’s up the hill. Rain again.

Prynnhawn da, they call as I step inside,
She’s halfway through a drawing, wild eyes wide.
Jacket soaked, cheeks red, breath full of speed —
“Tad!” she yells, “I built a dragon made of leaves!”

I grab her hoodie from the warming rack,
Pull it over her head, damp curls pushed back.
Shoulder ride. Mud path. One glove off.
She sings about pancakes, the rain, and moss.

Canal to Crosskeys — the puddles all shine,
Her humming’s a metronome to walking time.
We pass the old stone bridge, Pont-y-waun,
A tourist bus rolls past like it don’t belong.

Big and blue like a summer’s yawn,
Tima points and goes “That bus is blue sky!”
I grin: “Oh little star, if you only knew why…”

Skyblue bus, rolling slow,
Through puddle light and afternoon glow.
It don’t stop for roads or clocks —
It’s always moving, never knocks.
You blink, it’s gone —
But it saw you too.
And someday soon, it’ll ride with you.

The kettle hums. We’re home. Socks dry.
Tima curls like a comma in the crook of my thigh.
Mam’s out late, the wind’s grown chill,
The fire makes shadows dance on the windowsill.

I read her “Songs and Sayings” again —
Gwent and Glyndŵr, long-bearded men.
She yawns, a slow stretch, eyes full of moons,
I hum some lines, the old lull tunes.

And somewhere between the hearth and the book,
My eyes go soft, and the room gets shook
By nothing but quiet. My head leans low.
And sleep starts sowing what dreams will grow…

I hear a trumpet, soft and near,
From a box room I haven’t seen in years.
Rain on glass. Wood smoke air.
A blue light on the backyard stair…

Skyblue bus, with a number none,
Stops in the rain where the dream begun.
I hear my dad through the trumpet reed,
A tune from memory, stitched in need.
The past don’t knock — it finds its way
And the bus just hums like it knows the way.

I’m twelve again, staring out the door,
Wet hill rising past the cellar floor.
“En buss, himmel blå,” I whisper dumb —
It’s real. It stops. It hums.

A boy steps out, same freckled face.
“Come on then,” he says, “we’ve got time to waste.”
And we ride — over mountains, between each year,
Past vittra fields and twilight deer.

Trolls in scarves, giants in suits,
A goat on the roof playing silver flutes.
The bus don’t care for gravity's truth —
Just carries what's lost and waiting for proof.

Skyblue bus, through dream and dust,
Through every echo we forgot to trust.
It rolls through grief, it floats on song,
It don’t stay long — but it pulls you strong.
The door slides wide, and a whisper breaks:
“She’s calling, Tad — it’s time to wake.”

My eyes open slow, the hearth still red,
Tima asleep with her hand on my head.
Her breath is steady, a rhythm sweet —
Her foot still muddy, her sock half-creased.

She stirs. “Blue,” she murmurs low,
Then tucks herself into the blanket’s glow.
I smile. I don’t say a thing.
But I hear a bus bell in the distance ring.

Some things don’t fade — they just reroute,
Through time, through blood, through every doubt.
We ride, we sleep, we ache, we miss —
But we pass it on in a look, a kiss.

Skyblue wheels don’t rust or turn —
They hum in silence, they wait, they learn.

She says “blue” again, barely awake.
I brush her hair back, my voice low:
“That’s right, cariad.
The sky came back to take you home.”

BlåhilmaBussen (The Skyblue Bus)

Eternamente Ora, great release by Francesco Gabbani, remixed by Vince Molina -- Free Download

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