I’m standing here at the gate to heave stone, mix mortar, hang your slate. But this work well’s been held dry; there’s not a drop for you or I. It seems all that’s left for me to do is run a mile in someone else’s shoes and I could run and run for light-years, but there’s nowhere left to go. Our cosmic ambitions, they turned out chemical and cute. I don’t need my breath back, butty, my lungs are lined with soot. It’s a crisis on this infinite earth; the concept of year round spring-time erases all idea of worth. I’ve witnessed axes falling and head-baskets getting full, but there’s nothing I’ve ever seen like that look on a man’s face; eyes rolling, tongue twitching, mumbling intelligible verse from his favourite prayer. This table has to be wiped clean. I’ve left the plate and crumbs for the service.
As with many of Britain’s post-industrial wastelands, the South Wales valleys can be a brutal place to grow up nowadays. People who would, generations ago, have found gratification and purpose in work are left with little to turn to but cycles of crippling boredom and self-destructive behaviour. A sentiment with many of our close friends in mind. K
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