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Tip number seven erupted that day,

a man made disaster, a village would pay.

Coal waste and sludge, a dying legacy,

Its wrath did rain down, Aberfan's destiny.

Children so happy, t'was half term that day,

a week with no school, hip, hip hooray.

playing in orchards, and catching tadpoles,

not a care in the world, but sadly lost souls.

A grey mist lay thick, in the valley that morn,

just a few hours later, many families forlorn.

Why did it happen, the truth never known,

heartbroken parents, in sorrow still drown.

Lest not forget, the adults that perished,

protecting the young, lives that they cherished.

Their calling in life, to nurture and mould,

their calling in death, bravery to behold.

Fifty three years later, their memory lives on,

a generation lost, on that Autumnal morn.

Innocent children, before their time taken,

now in God's care never forsaken.


Copyright Arthur Cole 2016 (81)


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