Idris Davies
In the places of my boyhood
The pit-wheels turn no more,
Nor any furnace lightens
The midnight as of yore.
The slopes of slag and cinder
Are sulking on the rain,
And in derelict valleys
The hope of youth is slain.
And yet I love to wander
The early ways I went,
And watch from doors and bridges
The hills and skies of Gwent.
Though blighted be the valleys
Where man meets man with pain,
The things by boyhood cherished
Stand firm, and shall remain.