SLURRY FOR BREAKFAST.

On the valley’s hillside lie shadows of tragedy.
Phantoms, memories of a generation lost in sorrow
the black rock they clung to turned murderous
As they were served slurry for breakfast.

The pit, and its treasure they clung to for succour, for work
betrayed them, gave forever anguish,
blanketed their fathers with the blackest dust
and served them slurry for breakfast.

Beneath Cymric earth lay coal to be cleaved
Bustling communities grew, and the fate of Aberfan was revealed
on the morning of October 21st
When tears from the skies unleashed their worst –
then, as the heavens wept
a blackened wave cascaded, burying the helpless;
the Pantglas School had no power to intercept, yet became a haven of despair; after being served slurry for breakfast.

Blossoming babes as tender and pure as spring flowers;
nesciently clinging to the black rock; guiltless.
Hearts of parents shattered in hours, broken spirits served slurry for breakfast.

The world, in shock for a moment, did halt.
Where lay the blame?
Who was at fault?
Masters of the black rock clung to excuses
yet still poured men into their holes.
For them the price of men and children and souls
was worth the weight of tragedy, it caused them a little worry.
But it wasn’t they who for breakfast ate slurry.