The silver-hill, of choking dust,
remains in a day of protest’s vest..
As peace supporter daily flies,
To weep the weary worker’s cries..

A cross of ages, lost from view..
Restrains the bond of I and you;
Your crackling fire of smoke and phlegm,
A memory of your workaday wend..

My buttie box lies idle still,
as they lost my mind and broke my will..
So the undertaker will surely laugh,
At the bottom of the pile , from the top of the class..

But ‘Calon Lan’ would stir my heart-
Words unknown from the bloodline’s path-
If celtic ‘fire’, from rough-hewn log,
Could replace our never easing slog..

We struggle on, in search of the spark,
to unite us in our cause;
Yet have in hope, the history,
Of those that pass it, forward!..

                                       jimtom say..