The cold facts are these:

It was built for coal, for iron,

from Tynycaeau Junction, North East

through Rhydlafer to the Garth Mountain,

for the dolomite quarry,

through Pentyrch Cutting and

Walnut Tree Tunnel,

jutting high brick viaduct

across the Taff to Penrhos,

for ships at Barry Dock,

for steam, for smoke,

for ash,

for money.

 

It is a stretch of muscle,

navvy strength in broken boots,

for shelter, for heat, for food,

effort in spades, slab sided

and cold cast, rivet and rail,

ballast and sleeper,

for piston, for steel, for shovel,

for the clatter of metal

and the steam whistle’s wail.

 

But now nettles blow

in this beautiful decay,

buttressed by a ragbag of brambles.

It is home for Ash,

for Hazel,

for silence

that puddles

in the trees’ shade.

In this short pause in eternity

we walk the exposed belly,

follow its grain to the end,

and back again, to the tunnel mouth

muzzled with moss.

The ballast is tombed in leaves,

a womb for woodlice, for ground beetles,

for Rosebay Willowherb, for Ragwort.

There is no history here.

We see only to the bend clotted with weeds,

but hear fat insects drone, thick as resin,

and the sudden rattle of a woodpecker

hollowing a nest.