The Gate.

I was born and raised in a village out-side Llanelli called Llwnhendy. It was a farming and mining community, and as a child I remember the old men that had gone through the wars and then down the mines, their lungs were ruined by the gas and the coal dust. This is dedicated to them....

The Gate.   By Phill Williams.

Who stands there by the garden gate?
In his old brown shoes and his awkward gait.
He leans upon the post to breathe.
He gasps and coughs and wipes his eyes.

“I've spent many years digging coal",  he says.
“And dragging it out of that dark dingy hole.
So my lungs are now filled with that old demon dust.
It's a matter of time till I'm dust my-self.
But I've had a good life, a good wife and two sons.�
And many friends came when they buried that man.
They sang hymns, prayed and wept, and it rained for a while.
Sure his old wrinkled face, up in heaven, did smile.
As they spoke of their memories of the man.
The good things he did, his kindness, his charm.

And the gate stands there lonely, recalling maybe.
When the old man was young, when his lungs let him breathe.
No stopping- no time to open that gate.
He'd just take a short run and jump over it.
First girlfriend, first kiss, holding hands on the lawn.
And the day they came past in her white wedding gown.
And the day with the new born sons in his arms.
Then the day they brought their loves to meet with their dad.

Now the gate stands there lonely, the old hinges creak.
The metalwork's rusted, it hangs by a thread.
Until it falls to the floor and it's swept to one side.
The world must go on, though everything dies.

May 7th 2010.