Abergavenny To Blaenavon Poem by Richard George

The Coal Board has designs to sell
This mutilated moonscape
Where the great plateau of industry
Crashes into Monmouthshire.
They have taken all they want.

The B four-two-four-eight winds up
To sixteen-ninety:
We picnic-park, stretch our legs.
Higher still, Cefn Coch,
Beached carcass hacked with rain.

Two old men, caps and soot
Discuss the universe:
From the open-air museum
Of their livelihood, they greet us.
We owe them time of day.