Black Welsh Gold


I drove on roads

all bright and green.

The coal mines veins

desolate know like African planes.

No sight of the face,

just velvet green,

Covered up with a Tory sheen.

Passing another  industrial esfate.

Valley stone homes.

Grey to white and black to light

On corners, groups linger large

Like off-license bards.

Pints not pulled behind windows of wood.

Where Pitmen once fought,

It did no good.

selling us all to the devils soul.

They made this community,

a thriving shit hole.

The problem is

You cant see the scars,

When you pass by in cars.

with New planted trees

on a pitman’s blood.

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Author: alanwhitfield80

Hello! I get about a bit so here about me first. I am a visual artist and poet who works within the context of fine art. My work is grounded in documentary, exploring the inner beauty of everyday life through various lens based media. Notions of nostalgia and social commentary are present, but from a definite northern working class perspective. Instinctively I exploring the townscapes of North Wales and the North West, often producing work that reflects the every day minutiae of life.

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