Dawn cracked wide the curtains.
Down slated silver rain.
Like that first October,
Snaking into Swansea on the last train.
Past Margam’s sea of fire,
Valleys piled higher and higher
With yellow copper spoil
And molten black slag,
Mumbles, winking in the dark,
Constitution Hill, Paradise Park,
The bay disguised by shimmering foil,
Morris Castle, lowering from the crag.
This is where the Mumbles Road was blocked,
St. Helen’s, where the ‘Boks were stopped.
In Singleton, Wales once played Palestine.
Here formed the last NUM picket line.
From their embrace there is no escaping.
This was the crucible from which knowledge poured,
Who to love and what to despise,
How to extract even one solid nugget of truth
From the endless, polluted stream of lies.
This was the place for forging and shaping.
No further news from the battle front.