David Thomas is a poet, born in Gorseinon near Swansea - He lives in Birmingham and is a Service Co-ordinator for a housing association.
His publications include: Incantations, Colours, Day-dreams (1994), Poetry Wales, Roundyhouse

A founder member of The Poetry Initiative which organised readings at a variety of venues between 1989 & 1996. Has worked on various community based arts led projects

town hill
born on the wrong side of the lines cloud haloed silhouette a dark angel the vague delicacies of the moment of living of breathing deafened by loud explosions of graffiti across the boys' club walls high above and drowning fast the closed book of her world unfurled below like a banner without a battle on the wrong side of the hill for horizons the the fear of dying gives her reason enough to live until the fear of living gives her reason enough to die and it's all over so quickly that brief moment of pleasure that sees her now in the cold glow of winter pram in hand and another demand on her love on her emotions just another red letter day the love she dared believe but never knew the lies she knew would come but did not anticipate did not understand she was told like us all about wolves and trolls but no-one ever said that they came unseen without warning no-one ever dared disclose the truth and the truth is you don't get a chance to run inside and lock the door doors don't shelter minds and it's all over so quickly and the soul is so quickly damned...

a bare tree
scratches the cold air and the wind
snatches her away

asylum

matters of fact are nothing more or less than strictured fictions
so long as they are kept where we are happy they belong
at arm's length with the skeletons in our cupboards or our graves
they need not trouble us unduly

nights which bind us tightly in paroxysms of longing
that smother and goose the flesh to fine pinpricks
of belief and doubt faith and wisdom
remind us all is dust dust all
these are the moments when we break

having broken we are left to wonder

i came across a man once dressed like the risen schubert
suddenly assuming a place with little concern in the light of a church window
in the diffracted glory of an imagined redemption

they were tuning the organ and it struck a chord with him and within him
so that he raised his arms and began to conduct some piece or ritual
to which the onlooker was witness but not party
people soon complained and he was ushered away

the tuning continued until the organ was deemed sound
since it had to be accepted given its age
and the many re-tunings it had undergone
that the tone of the instrument would never again
be quite as pure as it had been in the beginning.