in the mud. Nobody came on to apologize for the unexpected mishap and recite immortal lines. The shreds of canvas fluttered overhead in the rain-filled wind like wordless tongues.
Chwaryddion Crwydrol (Clwb Llyfrau Cymreig, 1943),
Cwysau (Gwasg Gomer, 1980)
Jac L. Williams
The early May sunshine was 'calling mountainwards' 1 and I couldn't resist the invitation. After an early lunch I cut some sandwiches, put them in my pocket, and took a walking-stick in hand. I caught the first tram that would take me to the outskirts of the city, sitting near the exit so that I could alight the more easily. I began observing the other passengers as they got on or off. I tried to imagine where each one was going. I should have liked to think that a more or less tidily dressed child or two was going to Sunday School, 2 just as I used to as a boy. I saw some with swimming costumes under their arms, which suggested that they were on their way to the baths or the lake in the park. I recalled how firmly my own mother would refuse to let me go bathing in the sea before the end of May. I stared for a long while at a young mother with a small child fidgeting on her lap as if to show the world how great his enjoyment was. It was obvious that they were all pleasure-bent, and the bags of sandwiches made it clear that they intended staying out all afternoon. I couldn't blame them. Perhaps many of them had spent the whole week indoors, in an office or factory by day and many an evening in the stuffy air of a cinema. We used to condemn townsfolk for coming to lie half-naked of a Sunday afternoon in the district where I was brought up, but nowadays I can sympathize with them and forgive this transgression. I know about their captivity during the week, the lazy sleepiness of their minds and bodies, and the urge for some kind of freedom on Sunday afternoons. I decided that they too, in their own way, were going 'to worship God in a park'.
We arrived at the park's gates. The passengers all alighted except
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