Looking Over: The Edge of Love

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# Once a native maiden and a stranger met

# Underneath a blue Tahitian moon

# The stars were in her eyes

# Gardenias in her hair

# And they vowed to care forever

# Then one lonely day

the stranger sailed away

# With a parting kiss that came too soon

# And now the trade winds sigh

# When ships go sailing by... #

This country is at war with Germany.

# Once a native maiden and a stranger met

# Underneath a blue Tahitian moon

# The stars were in her eyes

# Gardenias in her hair #

Down here

on the platform of Piccadilly Tube station

in the heart of London's West End....

Many are bombed out of their homes...

... today of the evacuation

of London's schoolchildren.

... two attacks against London

and Southeast England.

... 200 feet below ground,

but they feel safe here.

# When ships go sailing by

# Underneath a blue Tahitian moon #

But you're not a coward.

- I don't want to die.

And why should I? And if I don't,

why should anyone else?

Yet, still,

you wouldn't make peace now.

Not now. You wouldn't support that.

You couldn't.

You've only got the one life, Anita. Just the one.

Dylan?

Is it?

Dylan Thomas. It is, isn't it?

Oh, my God.

- You might at least have lifted my veil!

- Oh, my God. Still love me?

- Did I ever?

- Lift the bloody veil, Vera.

Look at you.

Look at you. Not been called up?

Just because I haven't got a uniform.

It's me that puts the heart in the nation.

Ammo factories, I sing in.

- Down the tubes right now.

- I always loved your voice. Always.

- Amongst other things, I loved...

- Don't you come it, Dylan Thomas!

- You haven't changed.

- Course I have, thank God.

You can't. And don't. Not ever.

If you do, I won't let you.

I heard you on the radio.

Like going home, it was, your poems.

Like going back.

- Where's the posh accent from?

- You should've looked me up.

- Should I?

- Mm.

If I can get all my friends to donate

five bob each, this is the plan, see.

If I get them all to do that, I don't have to sell

my soul writing bloody propaganda films.

- I can write my bloody poetry.

- You'd have to join the army.

Grade Three sitting here before you, Vera.

Lungs raddled like a Sunday whore.

So... lend us five bob.

- I'll give you a snout, that's all you'll get.

- Oh. Give us, then.

- Silver's for the lonely, Vera Bera.

- Who says I'm lonely?

- Well, where's the man who'll give you gold?

- That an offer, is it?

- It's always been shares with us.

- You never had anything to share.

Yes, but if I did,

if ever I did, you'd be the first.

There's no folks like home folks.

And folks you've grown up with...

...they're the best of all.

- You win.

- Goody.

Forever and always.

You won't, will you?

- Won't what, lovely?

- Get lost again?

Ta, mate.

Hello, love!

I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie

And the old terrors' continual cry

Growing more terrible

As the day goes over the hill

into the deep sea

I have longed to move away

From the repetition of salutes

For there are ghosts in the air

And ghostly echoes on paper

This is Dylan Thomas

for the BBC Home Service.

- Hello, darling!

- Where you going?

Tension, four hundredweight.

The commentary has to persuade

women to join the balloon defences.

"Shaft a Jerry and maybe one of our

boys will shaft you." That do you?

Your talents really are wasted here, Dylan.

We could have a drink if you like? After.

- Course we could.

- I'm not a bloody dog, Dylan.

It's the brunette, isn't it?

I had a golden childhood, Anita.

And here it is turning up all unexpected.

Now I can't look a golden childhood

in the mouth, can I?

The commentary, please, Dylan.

Myselves

The grievers grieve among the street

Burned to tireless death

A child of a few hours

With its kneading mouth

Charred on the black breast of the grave

The mother dug

And its arms full of fires.

Spare us the bloody tragedy, man.

I need something hopeful here.

The lion once known as Jehovah

- Oh...

- Rose up and cocked its leg over

The lioness roared,

Jehovah had scored

All over the living room sofa

Dylan, I require a commentary.

Dylan! Dylan!

Caitlin?

- You told me you couldn't live without me.

- Where's our son?

Chopped up in little bits and packed

with my knickers in the suitcase.

The police'll be chasing you.

- Don't pretend you want him here.

- There's bombs!

It's nothing to do with bombs.

You don't want him. So I didn't bring him.

I've never been a father before, Cat.

It's not straightforward.

- Still the light of your life, am I?

- In the New Forest, is he?

Why are you asking, Dullun?

You know damn well our son's with my mother.

I love you, Cat.

Give us a fag, then.

I'm out of bleeding fags.

Give my head a good scratch. Please?

Oh, lovely!

- Where are we living?

- Nowhere.

- Ow! Velvet your bloody claws!

- Scratch your own bloody head!

- Come here.

- No.

Kiss me.

Excuse me.

You dropped your handkerchief.

- No, I didn't.

- Yes, you did. Right there.

It's not mine, sorry.

You're supposed to take the hankie,

I'm supposed to introduce myself,

- buy you a drink.

- I don't want a drink.

- Nice try, though.

- I've never done this before.

No. You've just never

been caught out before.

Hello, darling.

- Sod you, then!

- Oh, dear. Picky, picky, picky.

- You're late.

- I know. It's all her fault.

- Who's your friend?

- Queen of Ireland,

love of my life, mother of my child,

Caitlin Thomas.

Your wife, Dylan?

The one and only.

- He didn't mention...

- Well, he wouldn't, would he?

You made that, didn't you?

I might like you.

Then again, I might not.

I'll await your decision, shall I?

I won't hold my breath, mind.

- Got a mansion we could share?

- Yes. Two little homeless orphans.

- I've only got a room.

- Bugger. Condemned to her sister's.

I'll be having that, sailor boy.

- Needn't let...

- Small matter of a wife?

- Nothing should ever come between us.

- Oh, God, Dylan.

Soul mates, we are, Vera. Always were.

- Don't.

- Stop talking about me.

There's a phone in the hall

where I stay. You know.

If you want me, he's got my number.

What does it mean when she smiles?

I don't know. Never did.

God help us.

It's the Visigoths from Wales.

Your sister's here.

Back from strangling Germans, then, are you?

Left the other boys playing with their little pistols.

All ging-gang-gooley and yo-ho-ho.

That what you call poetry, is it?

Look, give us a bed

and we'll stay out from under your feet.

# Maybe it's because I kissed you too much

# Maybe that is why

my kiss means too little

# Maybe with a love so great

and a love so small

# Maybe I'll be left with no love at all

# Maybe I'll be left with no love at all #

Sometimes I can nurse a single pint

all night. But that's sometimes.

Thank you.

Oh, yeah! I thought it was hilarious.

I'll get them in.

You pay, though, Vera, eh? Fair dos.

- Support the starving poet.

- You are not a bloody poet, Dylan.

You write films about barrage

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