Gwynfor was playing the blues

We sat in the pub garden.
Listening.

A man rushed up, spoke to him
as he sang. A nutter, I thought,
or someone requesting a song.
Then he grabbed the microphone.

The sea was behind us. The beach.
The dunes.

‘People,’ he said (he sounded French)
‘have any of you people seen my son?
Little boy. Blonde hair. Red shorts
I turned my back. He was gone.’

Well that put an end to the music.
How could you play on with that happening?

Call the coastguard. Call the police.

The sea was behind us. The beach.
The dunes.