St. Bathans Poem by Raz Nicholson

Tawny green grass, torn mountain slopes
took my breath and miner's hopes.
Pushed me gently up the hill,
where to watch the vista spill
where the brush of creation lovingly touched,
the same space my footsteps must.
I'm life, but my kind of life this place does mock
as history watches from every rock.
The very air lets you know it was once so hard
to work the rock, the field, the grass.
Well I don't mind, here's to them,
I'll draw down deep and breathe it in.
It's the same sun up there I see from home,
but it feels as if it's somehow grown.

Makes me want to raise a glass and toast,
to grey history's laugh,

and ghosts.