Myrtha Tydfil
A russet spire winked through the barren trees,
just as the sun sank, casting rusty-red,
upon the old town’s winding, cobbled streets.
Vague visions of the past ran through my head.
I found the church. It graced a tiny hill
in Myrtha Tydfil; so I entered there
and glanced around in curiosity--
I thought I heard the echo of a prayer.
Outside, I noticed how the sky had changed.
As raindrops scattered over road and field,
old coal slag loomed in regiments of green--
the tragic waste of honest labor’s yield.
The winter evening swept the homes away
as darkness covered every lonely place.
And so I never got to hear, or see--
one laugh, or smile upon a Welshman’s face.
