Darkness still remains regent
And I slip quietly from my bed,
Summoning the senior hound to
join
My lonely and lovely journey.
Black magic silence beckons us
And how can we resist the call?
A slow and languid column of
smoke
Rises quietly up into the navy
sky,
Untroubled by any south-westerly,
As the early workers at the
brewery
Conjure their intoxicating and
celebrated drink.
Up behind Y Plas, I hear the
rasping, gasping cough
Of Howard Griffiths, and sadly think
Tomorrow may not come for him.
Dawn is too sweet a word for the
monochrome
And dismal scenes we race through.
My companion is like a small, pale
ghost
As he forges ahead, his eyes
glassy and other-worldly
In the sparse yellow light,
chasing the host
Of night-time beings as they
scurry away
Before the break of day.
The ancient railway has drifted
from memory
But its spirit lingers on, with
fragments
Of coal dust, weariness and a
lust
For Felinfoel Double Dragon at
the end of the shift.
Shadowy miners make their
perpetual journey to the pit
Passing their own gravestones at
Trebuan, oblivious to the present,
Forever trapped in a grim and
sombre warp of time,
Hard-working faces blackened and
caked in grime.
The cadaverous, grinning guard
escorts this macabre host,
His smile never reaching his
eyes.
I look , I see, I peep inside the
secret lives
Of those who dwell quietly
Along the track of history and
mystery and bikes and hikers....
They dwell snug and safe, houses
warm and bright, and hug each other
Tightly and watch....
They live their lives on the other
side, oblivious to the travellers,
The shivering movers in-between,
The people who walk and talk and
cycle and dream their
Dreams along the eternal way from
north to south
And back again.
They live their lives, and do not
realise
What happens on the other
side.....
A nappy, cereal and vest-clad child
Eyes fixed and wide,
Made blue and bold by the morning
programme
As he watches entranced, standing
firm
With his chubby flat feet and his
baby shadow
Casting indigo bodies on the beige
shag-pile.
The Night Garden holds him fast
While his knock-kneed stance denies
him one last
Mouthful of that erstwhile warm and
comforting slop
Called breakfast.
The subtle gradient speeds us
along, down
Through serious trees and hedges,
allowing
A swift and easy journey towards
town.
The misty rain softens the air, Dog
following
Closely, not daring to leave me
amidst
The shadowy memories of the
departing night.
A solitary cyclist fails to alert
us of his silent approach.
We jump, hearts beating, eyes huge
with fright
As the spectral form passes through
into the cool, grey light.
The rugby field lies muddy and
empty
Of the butch and blaspheming,
lager-swilling
Players. Rivulets of water from
last night's deluge
Run relentlessly down the grassy
slopes, spilling
And splashing onto the orange-lit
track,
Making pools of gold which soak my
shoes.
The Llanelli Star lies sad and
sodden on the ground
As befits the fate of yesterday's
news.
We carry on, the rain in our faces,
embracing the morning.
The awakening town stirs into
reluctant life.
Bleach thrown over the speckled,
splattered vomit,
By a man from Krakow, eradicates
last night's feast,
And the shapeless dark form of a
wicked hobbit
Obstructs our path, the wheelie-bin
has its own persona
In the dim and chilly twilight.
Onwards, always south, the sky
brightens,
The chill breeze quickens and the
sound of the boat-train
Lends a melancholic strain
To the whole struggling, yawning
scene.
We turn around, we head for home,
with cold paws and fingers,
Not wishing to linger
A moment longer than we should.
Photography by www.ken-mcdermott.com
Photography by www.ken-mcdermott.com
