Will George Poet

Valley people.


The Rhymney sheds its tears at the foot of the Brecon Beacons.

It winds its way through its people.

Sweat and blood once mixed to taint its waters.

Sins and redemption washed away.


The rain falls softer now!

Smog and grime from furnace and mine are less.

Pollutants of body and spirit absolved,

the silence echoing in the valley.


Traffic constantly passes, crosses, ignores the murky stream.

Communities that once were, no longer remain.

There are houses terraced, detached, not molded to the hillside.

They stand aloof, distant, lost.


A trickle raises its soft voice, the babble of the brook melds,

with many more merging to meet and roar with the faster Taf.

The water takes its course, rarely waiting or listening,

to the echoes of a silent people.


Super stores served by super-highways draw the penny pinching.

Bulk buying feeds the body, does not stimulate the mind,

And like the empty Chapels do not replenish the soul.

Who cares about that anyway?


Pubs, smoke filled, find the few who wile away time over a social drink.

Conversations are much the same, dialect, content and expression

unchanged mingled with expletives

regurgitate on old concerns.


Those in the valley are driven by others!

Identity theft is a subtle invasion, blanketed in the guise of progress.

There is no need to conquer a dying people, starve them of their truth,

their love of song. And in holy righteousness they will remain lost.


Will George

Dec 12, 2003