The first time I came to Swansea,
I was in uniform,aboard Hr.Ms. Overijssel D 815-
a destroyer of the Royal Dutch Navy.
No grand welcome,no flags or cheers.
Only the sea,carrying us gently
as if it already knew we were coming.

The town was simply there-
without boasting, without explanation.
Rising quietly from the land,
its shores speaking to those who listen,
its streets filled with old spirit,without show.

I stepped onto the shore,
feeling less military, more human.
The wind moved between the houses,
carrying the scent of salt,coal and memory.

Everything was wet-
stone,windows,time.
Yet something in this dampness
gave my thoughts a place to sit.
Not a loud welcome, but a quiet presence.

I was young.
The town didn't have to convince me
--
there was no arrogance, no pretending
in how it stood there,
having weathered the world without
losing itself.

The ship was anchored,
but sothing in me
was anchored too.

Swansea:not a place to pass through,
but a place to remember,where the sea brought me ashore,
and the land held my voice.