walking the works

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