Ghosts of history walk December’s dark
Names that their neighbours knew whine
On the icy wind across the Lan
While the ghost of William John moves anxiously
Warning against choke damp in Bras Vein.



If you listen, you will hear the cold air rasp
With Edward’s run for surgeon Evans of Tynant.
And hear the last leaves rustle
The voice of Moses Llewellyn of Taff Vale
Whispering plaintively, I am twelve years old and dead,
His young feet dragging on the long path
That never takes him home again to Mam.



And when your feet ache in the numb cold
And you pause to stamp beneath frost emptied trees
You will hear the chill voice of Rees, the Coroner,
Describe the face of David Evans, gassed and dead,
Blank, peaceful like the distant moon.



As your eyes sting in the winter frost
Look up and see, through chill December skies,
Thomas Llewellyn, two names in your frosty breath,
Father and son, from Penywern, Garth Hill,
Partners at work, now side by side in death,
Taken by tram to their last bed.



And if your ears burn in the cutting frost
Listen for the voice of Collier Evans, who escaped destruction.
Crying still with the hunting owls. Somehow ashamed
He did not die there with his friends. Haunted
By the anguish of men dashed on trucks or burned,
He roams the night alone in his despair
While the muted sobs of children echo with your steps
Following behind you in a slow cortege.



As you walk on through the still night,
Pass shadows carefully. The little groups
Of wives and mother’s wait in shrouded mist,
Fixed silent in their grief,
Chilling dark corners with their misery.

As you cross the Old Drift this troubled night,
Through half closed lashes you can see
The stable where they placed the men in straw
And hear the voice of Abraham Phillips girl
Screaming her love for father through the night.
The phantom groups here will not trouble you.
They are absorbed in their grim task through time.
Walk silent through their midst, but note
The road you walk is coal black damp with tears.

Norma Procter