Bits and pieces of
Under Milk Wood are still eddying through my mind.
At the sea-end of town, Mr and Mrs Floyd- the cocklers, are sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt and brown, like two old kippers in a box.
My battered old edition includes a brief preface by Daniel Jones which ends with an interesting point:
In case Under Milk Wood falls into the hands of a Welsh philologist, it must be made clear that the langusage used is Anglo-Welsh. Dylan Thomas spoke no Welsh, and the reader must imitate his inconsistency if he wishes to hear the words as they were pronounced by the poet himself.
This is then the land of my (father's) father, proudly Welsh but non Welsh-speaking. This has been this Englishman's gain.
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