Here's another offering to Poet's Corner from a local lady. 

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"Elvis at Treorchy" 

I heard the voice of Elvis on the High Street in Treorchy,

From the Health Shop when I passed the strains of music floated free,

So I stopped and peered in, midst the boxes of ‘Ginseng’

There he was with his guitar perched on his knee.

Then I crept into the shop, to the beat of ‘Jail House Rock’,

It was hard to keep from dancing I must say,

Behind the Vitamins stacked high, undiscovered I did pry,

Just to see how Elvis Presley looks today.

I knew that it was Elvis by the way his top lip curled,

And his side burns black as jet stretched down his face.

Then he stood up and gyrated, caught my eye and quite deflated

To the stockroom, he shot off like in a race.

I reached out and took a bottle filled with fish oil,

And I shouted, “Come on Elvis.  Shop, shop, shop.”

Then out came this old fellow with a beard of shocking yellow,

Horn rimed glasses with big eyebrows ‘cross the top.

I said, “Elvis?” He said, “No ma-am. “I’m called Malcolm.”

But he wasn’t fooling me I knew the drawl.

“You’re from Memphis Tennessee,” I said, “So please don’t lie to me,

It’s no use pretending you come from Porthcawl.”

Poor old Elvis looked quite fraught he’d been discovered,

In his eyes, the look of fear was plain to see,

“You’re sure mistaken ma-am,” said he, “I sure aint from Tennessee

And that fish oil sells at dollar ninety-three.”

I leaned across the counter and I stared into his eyes,

I said, “Elvis Presley you’ve no need to fear,

Your secret’s safe you’ll see, not a word shall come from me,

But only if this fish oil’s going free.”

It was weeks before I went back to Treorchy,

At the health shop door I stood and turned quite pale,

The door was barred and locked; it really left me shocked, 

‘Cause the sign that hung outside said, “Shop for Sale.”

“You’re too late,” some woman cried, “He’s disappeared,

Overnight they came and cleared out the lot,

A stretch limo came and took him and his Misses,

If you ask me this Treorchy’s gone to pot.”

Once again, I squashed my nose against the window,

Deep inside midst the gloom I clearly read,

It is Malcolm Wilkinson, who’s left the building,

Nosey Parker listen please, “ELVIS IS DEAD.”

by Anna Brown

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*Thanks again to Anna for sharing her poems with us!

- and the very of best wishes from Treorchy to Malcolm and Sue Wilkinson who have recently left us and headed north to make their new home in bonny, bonny  Scotland!