walking the works
fountains of steam in the cold morning air
the ironwork’s cooling ponds just over there
where the giant reed mace in bobbing refrain
the coot and the moorhen patrol their domain
past the gasometer rusting and well past reprise
and the tyre garage squealing oil black debris
on across the neath road to raid the abattoir
for maggots that tempt the trout out the choir
past the swansea vale works leaded and white
in deep culverts of slag speltered in spite
old derelict works with shuttered windows of lore
smiling when the kids of dare daring explore
foxes with golden coats just like the trains
with their names resplendent in dead-end domains
of scrapyards in rusting of green engine livery
and pipes to where god knows where - certainly not me
the dog and the fisherman watch water voles unfold
with trout in the rapids or under the banks to behold
the chickweed carpets rendered in surprise
hooks worms in both pockets diminutive in size
the rod and the reel of adventure fulfilled
noise on the iron works hammered and drilled
no deathly silence broken of late for
the manesment works is now far from great
where the roach and eels from the sargosso sea
caught at the end of the rickety pier by me
smaller and smaller to heol las a stream in demean
with tributaries disappearing into a marsh obscene
secondary-modern llansamlet’s toughest of schools
bullied into being a wooden corridor of fools
so there our excursion has run to its source
and i return home for dinner of course
