A single man shot at Irma from his battered window or porch, believing he was a Western hero and she would fall.
      But she did not.
   Overland she gained power, stalling over a city and sucking in the warmth.
    Sea temperatures higher and higher and also the air : levels rising and threatening.
   Oil refineries put out like candles.
   Whole countries ransacked and uprooted.
   And only a matter of time before the floods come here again.
   We invest in debt. We invest in properties fragile as balsa wood ; build to sell not to last.
   We dub so many 'failures' , then wonder why they end up living this out, turning to substances to dumb their days of dread.
   They hear voices commanding them to leave, out into the raw, pounding rain.
   There are so many forms and everyone just one click away from being cut off.
   We carry on buying, but to what purpose?
   When we stop the shutters go up and windows never come back. Empty buildings are fit and ready for more hurricanes on the way.
   In the centre of the city a young man whirls with a machete like a small tornado .
   After offices and shops have opened, it's the morning sleepers.....
   Rough?
   A gentle enough word, suggesting stubble and surface.
   What better one?
   Wreck-wanderers?
   Only one click away from them.
   If there were some important event here - one to bring in the world - they'd have to be swept away.
   The Council would have to deploy a giant broom the size of their Roald Dahl inflatable peach.
   Swept in one big tumble of human heap into a vast hole ( somewhere up valley and away) once an opencast mine, which the company failed to landscape.
   A black crater.
   A jumble of limbs.
   Dust and waste the colour of a storming sky.


                               TIDELINES

Bladderwrack prickly, podded,
thick tar sticky,
always the plastic,
punnets from cargo
and , occasionally, smoothed
eroded driftwood bodies.

Shells of every kind,
yet these are soft
as tissue in wind and rain,
card and cloth
not chalk and lime.

The sea that has risen
brought them miles inland
deposited in towns and cities
in subways and doorways,
expressions already drowned,
bedraggled and sodden
from the struggle to land.

We step aside, around,
our bags are anchoring,
we have timetables
and vital destinations ;
this clutter-kind
are not of our making :
our telescope eyes, sails of skin.

   I was going to write a letter to 'The Guardian', but it's rare they publish them.
   I also heard the same remark on national (British) television and wondered afterwards if I'd heard it correctly.
   I'm referring to an article in 'The Guardian' last Saturday about the catering trade focusing on one hotel in Bath, the Queensberry, and looking at the effects of Brexit.
   It comprised  of four views from different workers all claiming that Brexit was having a detrimental effect which would only worsen.
   The final account was from the owner, Laurence Beere.
   He was talking about immigrants leaving their homes and country to work at his hotel and he added - ' I don't see anyone from Merthyr Tydfil coming here to do that.'
   This appalled and interested me.
   I wrote a poem years ago about a friend I made while working at a garage in Barry. He was an elderly man from the Rhondda who told me how, during the Depression of the 30s, he had actually walked all the way to the Midlands seeking employment in the car industry and had stayed there most of his life when he got a job.
   He was an inspirational character : working-class and intelligent ; also a Welsh nationalist, which made him stand out in our workplace and , indeed, in Barry itself.
   Beere's insult to the people of a town I love seemed very deliberate and, quite possibly, based upon documentaries such as 'Skint' on Channel 4. 
   I'd like him to meet people I know today, to destroy this cruel caricature.
   As with any caricature, there are aspects of truth, yet these characteristics aren't  confined to the working-class portrayed on television.
   I live in a so-called 'posh' part of town, yet have neighbours who've lived most of their lives on pensions and benefits, who voted UKIP and are blatantly racist, ironically attacking Polish immigrants who come here to work hard.
   However, Merthyr has specific problems for many complex reasons.
   I could show  Beere a young man who suffered greatly from depression and struggled for years to find an occupation - having too many workfare placements which smacked of slave labour - but who now works, as many others, in the retail sector and holds down a regular job for the first time.
   I could introduce him to a friend who left school without many qualifications, yet is one of the most creative and intelligent people I know ; a one-time skilled worker whose talents are now wasted.
   Many from the Valleys do go to Cardiff  and further afield to work : one of my friends travels every week to Northampton! The cost of transport and accommodation is very prohibitive though.
   People here can be overly parochial and close-knit, but it's that which actually retains a semblance of the community spirit once prevalent.
   The demise of heavy industries undoubtedly left people with debilitating illnesses and took away a sense of purpose from places like Merthyr Tudful, once the capital of iron.
   To that hotel owner 'Merthyr Tydfil' was short-hand for indolence and merely displayed his ignorance.
   It would be great to bring him along to the Rising Festival next May to witness the array of talent from poets to political speakers, singer-songwriters to rock bands.
   In reality, Merthyr could instead be synonymous with artistic creation : Gus Payne, Jamie Bevan, Kizzy Crawford, Bryony Sier and so many bands I couldn't even begin to name them!
   I'd like a similar article to one day say - ' Yes, Merthyr, that artistic rising.....we could do that here!' 

    
                                     PEOPLE  FROM  MERTHYR

People from Merthyr
are feckless, obese benefit cheats
who spend it all
on booze and tabs,
have too many partners,
abandon their kids,
walk around using sticks,
don't want to travel
even to Cardiff
to look for jobs.

People from Merthyr
are an insult
to the town's past
glories of coal and iron ;
they wander round
drunk or doped
moaning about
the Poles or Portuguese
who've taken all the work
they've no intention of doing.

People from Merthyr
want it all given to them
( I know as I was one,
but got work in a call-centre).
Don't talk to me
about talents wasted
or factories closing down,
zero hour contracts and agencies.

People from Merthyr
don't bother with education
( I was the exception) ;
the only enterprise is crime,
those documentaries were right.
Don't talk to me about disabilities,
get stickers easy  as cocaine.
They aren't martyrs,
they are society's burden.

Woodburn, Boy Ben -
who needs Big Ben?
One strike, a beginning.
Born in Nottingham,
raised in Sir Gaer
across the border.

He's a Cymro
without a question -
a Lerpwl lad
used to the red.

But remember the magic
that incredible 'hud'
of 'Hen Wlad'
sung during the game
( like Bale's goal v. Belgium) -
as the opposition's clock
is suddenly stopped.


But not our Ben-
at the very end
of the ringing chorus
the Austrians mesmerised,
hypnotised by the song
and Ben's right peg
like a resounding chord
of all the Barry Horns
and thousands of jubilations.