Opencast coal-mining (much more like quarrying) looms over this town of Merthyr, with its constant threats of dust and diesel fumes and endless noise from diggers and trucks. A black hole in the lungs of the mountainside.
The Red Poets (who launch issue 17 on Sept. 23rd) have always been associated with the Valleys and our hardcore performers for many years have been Jazz ( from Penywaun) who once worked as a miner, Tim Richards from Abertridwr (who was very active in support groups during the last Miners' Strike) and John Davies from Maesycwmmer, an ex-Labour Councillor whose work is often influenced by the importance of mining to the Valleys.
As to myself, it has pervaded my work from the first day I set foot in the Valleys, staying with a miner and his wife in Tredegar , while doing teaching practice there. It was impossible to ignore his hands, each line engrained with coal and his lungs, rasping and gravelling with all the dust he'd breathed in.
When I moved to Merthyr, I couldn't fail to ignore the effect of the coal industry (especially from the 19th century) on the landscape of the Waun at the back of my house.
There had been many drift mines (much like Gleision) and also small shaft-holes which had become overgrown or plugged in. No openings remained on the slopes yet the topography has been shaped by them and the numerous slag-heaps now reclaimed by heather and gorse, by grass , wild flowers and bracken.
I have known men who worked at Tower Colliery , which was owned by the workers after the Strike and, for all their suspicion of the overbearing Tyrone O'Sullivan, they much preferred this pit to any run by the NCB. They knew that safety came first and would ensure that conditions were always as healthy as possible.
If we have to have coal mines at all, then at least let them be controlled by the workers themselves, in co-operatives similar to Tower.
Of course, it's difficult at present to be sure about health and safety matters at Gleision. Seeing pictures of the mine is like time-travel back to the 19th century, with wooden props and a mere two and a half foot high gallery to work in.
From listening to mining engineers on tv, it seems likely the miners dug into an old working which was flooded. Water from the old gallery would have rushed rapidly into Gleision. But was there proper equipment to detect such workings?
The solidarity and support of communities in the Swansea and Neath valleys for the miners' families shows clearly that caring and compassion haven't disappeared.
Mining is often only a few generations back for many of us here and my grandad's family from Cilfynydd (near Pontypridd) were hauliers at the mine whose site is now occupied by Pontypridd High School.
This sense of family history combined with the over-riding impact of coal on the geography itself means we cannot easily forget the past, nor should we.
The Empire that coal, iron and copper helped create through its engines of trade left most of us stranded as it collapsed, and seemingly without a purpose.
Yet, other people can give us a direction and I can only admire the many who came to Gleision to fight and try to save those miners lives. It is deeply ironic that Cameron ( featured uncritically on BBC Wales's 'Week In, Week Out' last night) is cutting the health and safety budget by 30% and attacking the pensions of the same fire-fighters he hails as heroes!
It's impossible to bring much light to relatives of those who died; however, messages from across the world bring comfort and the cwtsh of communities helps with glimmers in a long, dark passageway.
Voice Remained
I could tell he was speaking about
the best and worst of times,
though his face had no glint of light
from lamp or end of the line.
There, in his warm taxi, the rain
tipping down outside, he looked back
into the dark gallery, couldn’t wipe
the wet away like his windscreen.
It was like ‘Coalhouse’ on telly, he explained,
that private mine on the slope above Tower;
production came first and safety after,
him and his dad looking out for each other.
With a mandrel at the face,
when it was dry the heat
would be like a furnace,
sweat like a plague of flies.
But in the damp was the worst,
days like today up to their thighs
hacking away……twice a collapse
and his dad dug him out of death.
Dust clogged like leaves in the drain
and notches in the rail like pot-holes ;
yet laughter was their second skin.
As he drove away, his voice remained.