Either side of the hill

Either side of the hill

It’s where the ships' hooters came from,

the other side of the hill, on

every one of my New Year’s Eves,

out on the back gate waiting

for the boom to roll over Kilvey Hill, from every

sailors’ grave waiting under the seven seas,

bleating for home, entreating: remember

Danygraig, 

that’s where the docks were 

over the hill and far away from

Pentrechwyth,

that’s where the works sirens roused

the train whistles to remember

the new born year is reborn for work.

Walk up to the windmill boys,

from the growl of the works on the black river

Tawe, not the Towy mind you! The Tawe.

Walk up to the windmill

from the nodding derricks on the docks

beyond Grenfell Park.

Get up there boys, get up there

and spin your worlds

around from the gateway to the seven seas,

around from the black works on the slag,

up to the Brecon Beacons, or out to the lighthouse

of Mumbles on the Gower, on the edge.

The dusty heather and spring white grasses

scuffing the boys’ shoes; be they

St Thomas born or Bonymaen bred.

The skylarks are yours, boys, soaring
blue ayes.

Or meet half way around to Tir John,

the power station, gone now of course.

Meet by the black woods and pick chestnuts, or

walk the lane past Brown’s farm to Winchwen,

past the rusty cobweb corrugated shacks,

past the bulls under the crows.

They are bulls I tell you! Bulls! Run! The trees.

With Crumlin marsh on the left 

you can walk to Skewen and back. 

Funny lot there!

But the boys of Danygraig and Pentrechwyth 

were immiscible oils, rainbows of different colours,

running back home to terraced streets’ golden pot;

all with different names, bleeding history they told me:

dockwise, run down Balaclava street, Inkerman street;

or above the works along Rifleman’s row, Taplow terrace.

Worlds apart in their similarity. 

No circularity around the hill,

simply we are, and will always be, 
boys from

Either side of the hill