In the house below Glandwr chapel

 

We moved to a house opposite the village chapel and graveyard nearly a year ago.

By chance I met someone who had lived in this house more than 40 years ago and she told me they used to leave the front door open to hear the congregation singing on a Sunday morning.

 Here's the poem that grew from that conversation.

 

­­

­­In the house below Glandwr chapel

 

they used to leave the front door ajar

on Sunday mornings to hear the voices soar into the chapel roof

and drift down the hill.

Back then, folk would trek miles over fields in their hundreds

– sheep farmers, wool workers, millers – a mass congregation

to sing praises for their work, their land a modest living.

 

Now, only magpies cackle Sunday mornings awake,

or the persistent throb of Keith’s mower in the graveyard disturbs slumber.

Nobody enters the old chapel, save to inspect fallen masonry

board up broken windows or secure slipped slates.

 

Those joyful god-fearing singers of centuries past lie still and quiet,

their pristine hush penetrates weekday mornings in the house below.

Black memorial stones shine wet and clean in early morning sun,

reflecting only silence.

 

 

The Flying Scotsman

 

And here's another one about trains... also one of a short series of poems about my Dad.

The Flying Scotsman

Some Saturdays Dad would take me to the footbridge

over the railway lines where we would wait.

Staring into distance at twenty-two minutes past nine

we’d see the smoke from far away

 

here it comes   here it comes   here it comes...

 

clouds of vapour growing bigger and bigger, closer and closer.

The train slowed just a bit as it rolled through the little station

away down the track; then, speeding up with steam hissing,

whistle screaming it would thunder towards us

 

here it comes      here it comes      here it comes ...

 

Too small to see over the railing, I’d jump up and down

and we’d both wave madly at the massive engine.

If we were lucky, the driver would wave back at Dad and me,

both smiling through clouds of choking smoke.

 

The train rumbled right under our feet,

filled our ears with its roar; the throbbing vibration

felt through all our bodies. We would wait on the bridge,

smarting eyes staring, as the misty trail disappeared into the north.

Making tracks

This poem appears in an anthology just published by South West Wales Connected and Severnside Community Rail Partnership. Writers from all over the south Wales region, and south west England, were invited to take part in a project to write poetry inspired by train travel.

We were writing early in 2024 at the time the latest sad news came from Port Talbot about clsoure of the steelworks. I had always been fascinated by the view from the footbridge at Port Talbot Parkway station. That bridge spans the platforms and you can stand directly above the many tracks running away far into the distance.

This project was my cue to write the poem about that view...

Making tracks

(On the footbridge at Port Talbot Parkway, 2024)

 

Steel lines run from steel town.

Tracks      next to tracks     next to tracks,

 

heading east as far as you can see, lines of possibility

side by side     by side    by side

 

all going  ...   anywhere else  

from yesterday’s redundant steel town;

 

to family and friends in castles and caravans,

cities and country, some in foreign lands.

 

Furnaces are cooling, as smoke drifts away

people are leaving,    leaving steel town

 

on tracks of steel,   lines by lines    by lines,

options side by side with prospects

 

wet lines shining in sun, tracks running like gold

away from steel town,  leading forever away

 

far from old steel town. Lines carry trains full of people

side by side    by side     by side

 

always going away,  only  away,

all      going     one     way.