Tip number 7

116 innocents sat quietly,
Starting a new day,
Thinking of the lessons,
Wanting just to play.

At 9.15 they were swallowed,
The false mountain engulfed them all,
It didn't care that they were good,
Or they were still so small.

A community was broken,
Searching through the earth,
Tasting death of those little ones,
Still so close to birth.

Their teachers couldn't help them,
They simply couldn't fight,
They were swallowed like the little ones,
Left looking black as night.

Miners rushed on over,
Dug out their very own,
Handed babe's to waiting arms,
With hearts as cold as stone.

They were taken away so cruelly,
A rib of black was broken,
Mother nature had no way to help,
Words of warning were unspoken.

The ignorance of corporate,
Had sent those babe's to heaven,
Ended life for profits sake,
Under a spoil tip number 7.

Aberfan - 21st October 1966

 

By Becky Clemett - 21^st October 2019

Pillows of stone.

The valley turned so dark,
Fresh faces turned cold;
Coal gouged out its cruel mark,
Buried the young and the old.
It engulfed them completely,
Covering life, school and home;
They're tucked up now so neatly,
Under pillows of stone.

By Becky Clemett - 21st October 2017

Dedicated to Aberfan

 

The mountain was misty a foreboding sight,

An emotional moment to go or take flight,

The landscape was even and unnaturally flat,

Angular edges protrude a macabre welcome mat.

 

The pathway was steep, reaching high in the sir,

My boys stride up quickly as they haven’t a care,

Bushes line the way up, then the sound of a bird,

Broke the silence of people, moving without a word.

 

The green leaves rustled gently, in the usual way,

While children grouped together, to laugh and to play,

Then I saw the first one, through a clearing on high,

So pure and angelic reaching up to the sky.

 

I knew we were close now, the air was so cold,

People in front of me climbed up the young and the old,

I walked past a gentleman, he sat looking sad,

A thought entered my head, he looked like my dad.

 

Then a haunting image could be seen high above,

Hundreds of little white arches being tendered with love,

Emotion filled my body, from my toe to my face,

As we turned the final corner, to that restful place.

 

Linen white marble marked each tiny bed,

Stone slab pillows lay at every small head,

I took just a second to take in the sight,

Holding back the tears with all of my might.

 

Looking at the gravestones, sorrow welled deep within,

I would read everyone but where do I begin?

Then I saw my eldest, he was stood all alone,

“That boy was my age mum, it says so on this stone”

 

No words came to my mouth, I just nodded my head,

Wondering what I would do, if it were him instead!

The horror of films came to this small town,

That fateful day, when the coal tip slid down.

 

By Becky Clemett - 21^st October 2017.