PRIDE
A proud grandfather, tears running down his cheeks
Stands proud on the touchline, amongst daffodils and leeks
His jaw is a trembling, his breath short but deep
His pride shared by thousands, who openly weep
“The Land of my fathers, the land of my choice”
“Mae hen wlad fy nhadau,” bellowed by millions as one voice
Whether Northern, South Eastern, Mid Wales or West
The dream for us all is to wear three feathers at our breast
The bright lights, the colours, the cameras, the sound
Sharp contrast to old legends who dug deep underground
From the dark valleys came, the pit props of the front row
The power house locks too—bent double to get low
To dig out the black gold, the anthracite coal
Beneath creaking timbers they dug out their goal
No breathable fabrics to keep the body cool
No dieticians to examine their gruel
You fed from the pittance, for providing the fuel
Extracted by sweat and a real hard man’s tool
“Keep my daddy safe,” the children would pray
Not for six figure salaries and a theme park day
And the local community, supportive in their own way
Would rejoice just to see them, fit enough to play
Wives and girlfriends, the ‘Celebs’ of today
Relax on their sun-beds on the beach of St Tropez
With no knowledge of the wife, back in the day
Who dreaded the sound of the whistle, hooter and dray
The knock at the door to return the broken man and say
“He never stood a chance, the props just gave way”
But there’s no reset scrum for this valley boy, no more chance to play
But as his body was laid in the ground to rest
His son made his pledge and clutched his chest
“One day Dad, you’ll see me become one of the best
And I’ll wear those feathers for you, emblazoned upon my breast
Dad—god bless”
©Stephen Lurvey 2011
