Clang echoes clang after clang after clang:
the rockman’s jwmpah pounds a shothole
deep in the angled vein; earth’s hoard is hard
and dense. Black powder is mixed with care,
for metamorphosis begins.
Ifor turns from the blast, looks back
to the incline where daymen haul rubble.
Cowjian gripped in one hand, rhys in other,
dust clings to his downy cheeks.
Counting the floors above: twenty-six
ascend within the mountain;
his roofed world seen by candlelight -
chambers beyond reckoning.
From six to six, six days a week -
bar three days annual leave -
there’s thirty, forty years of muscle-ache,
until, like some sneak thief silent,
silicosis steals the lungs.
On the surface Uncle Alun sits,
hunched astride his blocyn hollti,
splitting slabs wrested from their bargen.
The screech of a hunter’s teeth pierces
his insistent chipping rhythm.
When dressed, the slates pile up by size:
singles, doubles, headers small and wide,
likewise ladies broad and narrow.
Then the titled, Countess to Empress -
roofing for rich and poor the same.
Noon. Men withdraw to their caban:
a general removal of flat caps,
place-settling, boot-loosening,
and unwrapping of rations
before their chairman calls order.
Ifor minutes the debate:
his native hand witness
to the brooding brethren.
Fifty-three are suspended;
there’s sixpence a week to win
from mansioned English owners.
The word is strike, solidarity
constant as underground warmth.
Charged with hwyl, Sunday chapel
is bursting full; for hours together
in tune with the Minister’s spell.
Or not. Ifor ponders the risk
of cupboarding to make ends meet.
I stand. From his waliau gaze out
across the distance: torn hillsides
are blue-grey heaps of sharded waste.
Road fill for MacAlpine. Rain falls
on dark stone, from dark sky. Hiraeth.
iv.2009
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