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Mynydd Du

muddy tears from the past

sliding down the cheeks

of those who remember them

the thunder obliterated a generation

that would benefit from the industry

of their fathers

who prayed it all would last

while bosses planned

to take away their livelihood and history

they piled the slurry

into an unreliable black mountain

towering over ever...

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On Tumbledown, no doubting of our love,

No bishopric’s accusing finger points,

Proclaiming: ‘Gays can’t die for God above,

Or marry Harry, Jessica or George’!

No holy men in dresses and big hats,

Will stem this bloody flow, or hold my hand,

Or sing my soul aloft; no music wafts

Along the breeze from England’s pleasant land.

Are you still there, Jim? God, it’s blo...

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