Just how green is my valley
below those dark satanic hills?
How many familial bones
lay there molding to greyish dust?
Do the words of my forefathers
echo on beyond my ancient head...
so that future ears clearly hear
what wisdom they actually said?

I long to see the rain fall
on those grey slag built mountains,
where trees are straggly specimens -
sometimes misted by the clouds
so low that their moist kiss remains
on my upward stretching hands.
It's where the belly trembles
and my heartache trully expands.

But how much better would it be
were this a sundrenched paradise,
where everything was plentiful;
where everyone was fulfilled
and could afford their daily bread,
where cries of pain became instead
joyful smiles with ease instilled?

© Allen Ansell 2023