Birthday (Treorchy 1950)

A gentle haze settled over the valley.

The crowded bracken flowed in a warm summer breeze on the mountain slopes.

The chattering streams were silenced.

The trees bent and whispered secrets - shhhhhhhhhhh...

And the fritillary on heated stone fanned slowly counting time.

'Sian ....... Sian'

Working hands, pitted and scarred brushed back a tear......

'Sian'

The track clawed at the hillside, fighting for a hold,

And at the gate he paused - panting through dust-filled lungs, 

'Sian ....... my Sian'

A buzzard circled high searching for prey,

And the matching goldfinches paused, plucking thistles,

He knelt slowly by the small, ivy-covered grave.

And a hushed whisper - so quiet,

'I've remembered your birthday... Sian'.

note: Sian - pronounced 'Sharn' may be translated as Jane

(1970)

Treorchy, South Wales, UK

Stay-in strike (Fernhill Colliery September 1936)

September 1936 in Fernhill Colliery, despair hung in the air.

Angry eyes reflected in the helmet lights as rats scurried into the darkness.

They had arrived in the horses' feed and seemed well-suited to life underground.

Horses shuffled restlessly, facing their onerous task,

And reminiscing of their annual break in the bright sunshine,

Just a short freedom, from life's drudgery, in delicious fresh air.

No-one spoke.

And the dripping water echoed throughout the long, narrow tunnels.

Although everyone knew,an attack on the few was an affront to all,

Silence remained, as an  invisible wall threatening speech.

It had been a long, hard struggle as Capital would shit on Labour,

And much had been gained by acting as one.

Now a few were threatened again - only twelve denied the minimum wage,

Only a few - but past rights had been won by the shedding of blood and tears by all.

'Tommy-My-Boy' stroked the large, black V-shaped facial scar,

The black bite of a roof collapse.

He spoke in quiet Welsh tones as if gentle waves lapped the underground passages,

'When man does not stand up for principles, rights or beliefs, he's no longer a man,

And sometimes he has to die for them'.

All nodded.

None abstained.

On the pit bottom they would stay and nothing would move either way.

All sixty-four agreed, men would always have to fight in order to be free.

Cyril Rees started singing his favourite Welsh hymn,

Dick Young and William Evans followed the lead, 

And soon sixty-four voices in harmony lit the darkness,

As it vibrated along the coalface.

Men whose hardened muscles were honed in the earth's filthy bowels,

Have voices of angels that caress the soul.

But money and wealth are vicious foes,

With no holds barred in a labour war.

And 'they' controlled the air flow.

First, unbearable heat - air so foul to break one's heart.

Then air so cold - gnawing fingers of hate, freezing sweat and weakening resolve.

But time became blurred.

Here there is no day or night and tricks would not work.

They remained united and would not break.

After 292 hours in one long, so endless night,

Without fresh air or the sun's delight,

The point had been made.

So, for all concerned, a returns to the surface.

Honour was saved.

Black, haggard men emerge blinded by the unaccustomed light,

Unshaven and lousy as a result of the fight.

They had given their all to loosen the chains but knew they would be fighting again and again.

It was only a skirmish in the battle 'gainst wealth,

But in this short time they had sacrificed their health.

Now it's long past and memories fade.

Will we remember the sacrifice made?


(1972)

(sadly, TE Thomas, like many of those in this poem, died of 'black lung disease' in 1974)

(Photo depicts a typical miner reaching the surface - they were not allowed to smoke underground)

Night Shift

Underground it is always night,

As sunlight never penetrates these depths,

And helmet lights' spreading beams show the way.

There is a long walk bent double to reach the coalface,

And black scars down the miners' spines record these journeys.

Above, 'Evans-Long-Stick' travels his round lighting the streets' gas lamps;

The traffic stops;

Pubs close;

People sleep.

The darkness is welcomed as a time of rest.

It is silent and the moonlight casts slow-moving shadows along the twisting terraced streets.

Everything is quiet.

The birds roost;

Sheep sleep in their favourite recess on the mountain slope;

Even Bryn Jones' yapping black and white sheepdog,

Gently snores and twitches as it chases Joe Soap's bitch on heat.

But underground the earth is not sleeping as she groans and moans and presses on the wooden pit props;

She does not like men stealing her black gold.

At times, with frustration, she collapses the roof with an angry roar,

Or lets slowly seeping, invisible gas do its work,

Killing the plumed canary and causes a mass retreat.

At times she releases a gigantic wall of rushing water,

Through a freshly cut coalface,

And frightened miners scamper in panic away from a watery grave.

Sometimes out of spite, she explodes her breath,

Incensed at mankind plundering her wealth,

Sending a howling ball of fire straight out of hell, 

Through the narrow passages,

Incinerating all those caught in its path.

Who can forget the anguish,

As weeping wives huddle in their shawls beneath the slowly rotating wheel,

Or a mass funeral where dozens have died,

And the whole valley in black mourns.

Rhondda coal has always cost blood.

But strangely, even the earth has to sleep and rest,

From this constant battle with its robbers.

Between 2am and 4, weariness makes her rest,

And peace and silence spreads through the galleries,

Until she decides again to awake,

And continue the struggle.

(1972)