Bleeding Swansea slag

 Bleeding Swansea slag

The Tawe town, as it was then, when

it crawled across the river, along

with the smoke, rolling eastwards, 

plundered by the prevailing

westerlies, and the money that bought

the defenestration of the damned

workers in their metal works, upon

their slag tips, leaded grey from 

the Vale, or ochre cindered by the

copper works, speltered and raped,

upon fiscal’s alter ego, 

ergo: split off 

from the Atlantic air, and the graces 

in their elegant places there; while

the workers slept two up two down,

in streets named after the owners 

of the town, know for their grand works, 

and their dirty works working

for the shirking of their sweat.

The slag river valley with its pubs,

and wood grained chapel pews,

spurned by the green spaces 

loitering by the sea.     

For them, always it was

the slow running into the sand of 

any hope that dare walk westward.

Except for a few ‘brains’ of course, 

who would stir the grammar school 

gene pool for the market, banked 

upon the sweated graft of men of ore; 

hard men of yore, who, Lord help them,

never saw any good times. Never did.

But, hey! 
That’s just the way it was then.

Or is it now, nicely perfumed,
and so much better hidden?