50th Anniversary.

50th Anniversary


I was sixteen when that mountain of muck

Roared with the sound of the worst hurricanes

Rushing from the mountain top above Aberfan

To consume the life of a school, of generations.

I was being kept in silence in a dark room

And knew nothing at all of that place

Or that small children were drowning

In the slurry storms black torrent

The blackest news was kept from me.

My lungs were drowning me and I was fighting

For my own life. I make no comparisons.

The old priest sat at the side of my bed

Gave the last sacrament, words I barely heard

I was more concerned with the pain

Of taking the next breath and if the next

Would be my last or the pain would come again.

But I survived bed ridden through winter months

I was told my lungs were free of scarring

And in spring I was allowed to walk the mountain

When life is on the edge of a knife’s sharpness

The sun looks different, light has changed

The air of nights darkness has another meaning

The anniversary of the tragedy is near.

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