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Man-made, ebony heaps,
sat like parasites,
on the stone-hard,
God-made, natural peaks,
threatening existence,
core gutted, inside out.
Long tar hued shadows,
cast doubt on light and future.
Miners, tenor marched
from black faces, toward
singing home grey towns,
glad to be alive,
pit proud, related to the buried dead,
while, women prepared
tin bath water on open fires:
Rub- a- dub- dub,
my sons are in the tub.
Home safe again!
Houses joined in rows
snaked the valley, stone-thick,
their doors ajar
for neighbours sake....no robbers here!
Through windows,
parlours set for tea and cake.
Dressers china laden,
tablecloths rigor mortised starched.
Underground the unclean pick-toil,
the scrubbed nightshift dreamed,
sea fortnights,
victory over England
and Bristol girls.
Below, their wives
in cobbled yards,
mundane gossiped
of washing and prices.
Proud of judged
snow-white lines
of vests and pants.
Aged ex-colliers
walked lung-tired slow,
rich with danger.
Remembered lost colleagues,
truncheons,
foreign police and strikes,
work lonely, blue scarred,
white scarf,
capped from iron dai.
Their breath thinner
than depleted seams,
tired of a racking future
Saturday bookmakers
sat in bars, collecting illegal slips.
Punters day-dreamed
of four from four,
to escape entombment.
The pub loud,
everyman an expert
on today’s oval ball game,
where tactics abound,
who should play?
Shouting, near to fainting.
Social Club committee
pondered future social entertainment.
Weekend singing rooms
aped Italian ‘La Scala’
The elderly sat tearstained,
remembered past singers.
Big drinkers, fighters,
sang their turn at arias,
angelic gifted everyone
Valley boys ran on slopes;
Marshalls of whole mountains,
defending the hilltops
from the lads from other valleys;
they ran ragged,
chased sheep
sailed and swam in feeders.
Away all day protectors;
valley secured for another day.
Mothers as young as six,
pushed china-faced babies,
drew squares on pavements,
threw balls at walls
While under their street playground,
their fathers and brothers,
pushed drams,
drew on reserves,
threw picks at face.
Parents placed academic emphasis,
'study and you’ll work in Swandiff'.'
Pit owners rubbed their hands
and praised the choir,
paid for sons
and daughters private schools.
Life fidgeted and fussed along….
as sheep still roamed,
women hoped
and children Gaelic sang.
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