The Track

The Track, a new poem by Sonia.

Darkness still remains regent

And I slip quietly from my bed,

Summoning the senior hound to join

My lonely and lovely journey.

Black magic silence beckons us

And how can we resist the call?

 

A slow and languid column of smoke

Rises quietly up into the navy sky,

Untroubled by any south-westerly,

As the early workers at the brewery

Conjure their intoxicating and celebrated drink.

Up behind Y Plas, I hear the rasping, gasping cough

Of Howard Griffiths, and sadly think

Tomorrow may not come for him.

 

Dawn is too sweet a word for the monochrome

And dismal scenes we race through.

My companion is like a small, pale ghost

As he forges ahead, his eyes glassy and other-worldly

In the sparse yellow light, chasing the host

Of night-time beings as they scurry away

Before the break of day.

 

The ancient railway has drifted from memory

But its spirit lingers on, with fragments

Of coal dust, weariness and a lust

For Felinfoel Double Dragon at the end of the shift.

Shadowy miners make their perpetual journey to the pit

Passing their own gravestones at Trebuan, oblivious to the present,

Forever trapped in a grim and sombre warp of time,

Hard-working faces blackened and caked in grime.

The cadaverous, grinning guard escorts this macabre host,

His smile never reaching his eyes.

 

I look , I see, I peep inside the secret lives

Of those who dwell quietly

Along the track of history and mystery and bikes and hikers….

They dwell snug and safe, houses warm and bright, and hug each other

Tightly and watch….

They live their lives on the other side, oblivious to the travellers,

The shivering movers in-between,

The people who walk and talk and cycle and dream their

Dreams along the eternal way from north to south

And back again.

They live their lives, and do not realise

What happens on the other side…..

 

A nappy, cereal and vest-clad child

Eyes fixed and wide,

Made blue and bold by the morning programme

As he watches entranced, standing firm

With his chubby flat feet and his baby shadow

Casting indigo bodies on the beige shag-pile.

The Night Garden holds him fast

While his knock-kneed stance denies him one last

Mouthful of that erstwhile warm and comforting slop

Called breakfast.

 

The subtle gradient speeds us along, down

Through serious trees and hedges, allowing

A swift and easy journey towards town.

The misty rain softens the air, Dog following

Closely, not daring to leave me amidst

The shadowy memories of the departing night.

A solitary cyclist fails to alert us of his silent approach.

We jump, hearts beating, eyes huge with fright

As the spectral form passes through into the cool, grey light.

 

The rugby field lies muddy and empty

Of the butch and blaspheming, lager-swilling

Players. Rivulets of water from last night’s deluge

Run relentlessly down the grassy slopes, spilling

And splashing onto the orange-lit track,

Making pools of gold which soak my shoes.

The Llanelli Star lies sad and sodden on the ground

As befits the fate of yesterday’s news.

We carry on, the rain in our faces, embracing the morning.

 

The awakening town stirs into reluctant life.

Bleach thrown over the speckled, splattered vomit,

By a man from Krakow, eradicates last night’s feast,

And the shapeless dark form of a wicked hobbit

Obstructs our path, the wheelie-bin has its own persona

In the dim and chilly twilight.

Onwards, always south, the sky brightens,

 

The chill breeze quickens and the sound of the boat-train

Lends a melancholic strain

To the whole struggling, yawning scene.

We turn around, we head for home, with cold paws and fingers,

Not wishing to linger

A moment longer than we should.