[1]
It always rained.
It never stopped.
It rained so hard that umbrellas curled and died and young boys disappeared into puddles so deep that monsters lurked in the depths and rivers broke their banks and washed away innocent villages.
So memorials were built and from shallow pockets coins and notes were found.
Erected outside pubs and parks, market places and banks, needles of granite reminded people of the guilt and waste, of young men, wise before their years torn from bosom and coal fire.
And years passed, and young men died, old.
[2]
The wide open, free spaces of childhood when everything and everyone is big and breezy.
The long grass, the hollow tree that becomes a castle and fortress, the ocean of pond and its wild animals.
And then; narrow streets, noisy with old women washing and gossiping, and old men coughing and smoking and staring.
Brown and grey, memories frizzle and fry with bacon and eggs on open fires and rain that never stops.
Crack, crack, pain and metal and blood.
Dyfyniad - Mud On A Plate
An 11.59 Publication.
c. Steve Coel 2010
