How quickly the years fly by, each seems shorter than the last.
And what a store of memories, I've collected from the past.
The earliest that I recall, is of my birthplace in South Wales,
When winter spread her snowy cloak, over mountainsides and vales.
The row of terraced houses, where I first saw light of day,
Formed a barrier for the fleecy snow, as it drifted on its way.
Our front door was buried, where it laid, so deep,
back door barricaded, by a herd of sheltering sheep.
The buildings around the colliery, once black with dust and grime,
Had all been painted overnight, by the hand of wintertime.
The depressing, ugly slag heaps, that marred the mountainside,
Had vanished like sandcastles, before the rising tide.
One thing winter didn't hide, still stood out stark and clear,
wheel house of the mine shaft, which worked the winding gear.
And there are sombre recollections, which haunt my memory still,
A group of moist eyed miners, returning up the hill.
They'd been to the pit head gate, that's as far as they could go,
The Union said, "The strike goes on". "You can't go down below".
I was much too young to know, who was right or wrong,
old enough, to understand, the pathos of their song.