The Coal Board has designs to sell
This mutilated moonscape
Where the great plateau of industry
Crashes into Monmouthshire.
They have taken all they want.
The B four-two-four-eight winds up
To sixteen-ninety:
We picnic-park, stretch our legs.
Higher still, Cefn Coch,
Beached carcass hacked with rain.
Two old men, caps and soot
Discuss the universe:
From the open-air museum
Of their livelihood, they greet us.
We owe them time of day.
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