Penrhys ( 1986 )
I'd seen the boys in Cardiff throw stones,
and the lads on the Tyne-side flog the coppers
and then burn their council houses down.
I'd felt their anger before in the barren industrial streets
of Glasgow, Manchester, Swansea and Birmingham.
But never have I felt such unspent anger
as that expressed in the faces of the exiles of Penrhys.
Up above Llywyn-y-pia on the bald green ridge of the Rhonnda-Fawr,
long ago cleared for pit props,
sits a social engineer designed maze of concrete, steel, wire mesh and broken glass.
A village pillaged of its dreams
a top a cliff like some twisted lonely keep,
the inhabitants on Penrhys bustle against the eternal cutting wind.
They are the left overs,
Thatcher's social exiles,
a prison with walls of indifference.
The faces watch us with suspicion,
our hair too short,
our frames to broad and tall.
'They think we're coppers'
my pub found guide informs me.
A chill of compassion runs down my spine.
'Why'd they ever decide to build up here?'
The question is met by almost contemptuous surprise,
'te get rid of em' o'course, nought want in'ere street.'
I ponder this revelation,
the realisation of the true limits of solidarity,
as I draw in deeep breaths,
look down upon the endless terrace rows in the valley below,
look down upon a world,
who, of these exiles,
would rather nothing know.
Townsville to Childers
The long hot day slowly folds into night
radio stations appear and fade
Ayr, Bowen, Proserpine, Mackay
Marlborough stretch, Rocky,
passing Gladstone the clouds invade;
lightning over Miriam Vale
the storm rolls in
the sky is on fire
I think of Dresden and Baghdad.
trees grow huge in the silver silhouette
cane fields like a million spears
threaten the road
sheets of rain
murky curtains cascade over us
the road is a bleak white line
fast whippers peel away the water
exposing the broken tar
fingers of lightning show the way
the road appears then disappears
a bolt strikes so close
too close
the 4WD shudders
the drivers eyes wide in fear
lightning ignites the road
mile after mile of lashing uncertainty
bursting through the cane, and lightning
sanctuary.
Childers a damp, silent, sleepy safety
our any port in a tropical storm.
We stop and soon slip into wild lightning dreams.
DROPPING DAD OFF AT WORK
l. The Child.
Cold winter morning frost on rails
warm smoke snake trails
off terra cotta tiles.
Kotara station rigid and dark.
Dad tired, leather work bag in hand
a kiss for mum, straightening hair.
We scramble for the warm front seat
as he walks up the overbridge
and disappears into the swirling grey steam
of a wheezing, grunting 38 class.
Spring's glint on the harbour
the HD Holden rattles past No. 4 Lee warf
to where the ferry sits, chugging.
A steel hull, jagged and incomplete
sprawled in the slip
seagulls line the shore.
Dad hands over the keys,
'can we go for a ride
in that funny little boat?'
Dad smiles grimly.
We fight for the front seat
he disappears into the small wooden craft
that bobs across the harbour
as we clatter over the Civic rail gates.
Summer heat early on the tar
coal dust blows up
from strings of wooden coal waggons.
Pass the security gate and fabrication shops
slow down and watch the workers
under lattice jibs of luffing cranes
hard hats smile and call dad's name
exposed bulkheads and deckplates
freshly rusted, shimmer and creak
dogwatch welders share a smoke
with mates on the day work crew
wide eyed facination,
father like son, like.....
2. The Apprentice.
Troubled times and turbulence
sadness in my father's eyes
and sun off steel in mine,
he'd seen it all before.
Coal mountains and steelmills
flash past the finger stained windows.
Newcastle works and fights
for work, steam trains gone,
jobe go, time
work moves on
pyjamas replaced with King Gees,
playtime, overtime, doing time,
dad drops me off to work
and I've got his sad eyes.
Dockyard's closed, jobs are scarce
no more gleaming hulls slide
new born into Throsby Basin.
3. The Man.
The pain in my body
spells the end of my industrial career.
Words are my second chance
not so for the angry faces
that line the bar of a Carrington early opener.
Truth and the future lay in their next beer
I sit and remember with them
they laugh at the good times
and fall silent to drink.
I sit and stare at the idle bones
of my father's past
and cry inside in anguish,
but,
that's another poem.
Fort William (Scotland - 1986)
The old blue diesel pulls me out of Glasgow bound for Fort William
on the shore's of Loch Eil.
Outside the rattling compartment,
grey skies wallow over duns and heath
split by narrow roads and sagging rock walls.
Every bend brings me closer
to the home of my family's birth;
a home left so long ago,
for that strange brown land at the bottom of the world.
I take the trip my parents and grand-parents wished they had,
conscious of carrying their expectations.
I'd heard the stories of my forebears leaving their beloved Scotland
to take up the land again in the rocky valleys of the Hunter,
beyond the new Scone,
at Glencairn and Clencoe up the Rouchel Brook.
The clattering clatter leads me to dream of the past and wonder of the soil and water
from which my family, my life, have sprung.
The train stops, no station, a delay.
Strange low domes of green with yellow caps catch my attention.
My focus sharpens and barbwire fences, guards and guns come into view.
A roaring Tornado fighter screams overhead
and the perversity of this scene suddenly dawns.
Silos of hatered, by silos of grain.
I sit staring blankly at ICBM silosjust I00 metres away.
Reality check, I begin to sweat, the train moves on.
My dreams of highland history shattered,
but the lochs and vales draw me back in.
Hours pass as does the misty country side.
Fort William emerges out of the deepening drizzle.
Stopped.
Arrival.
The drizzle eases as I walk into the village quiet.
I know where it is, the statue of our forebear.
In front of the church....
I walk.
Donald 'the Bruce' Cameron stands - damp and bold,
looking out toward the loch.
I stare at him for a while,
he stares absently right over me.
Later I stalk through the cemetary,
the Cameron's of the 1830's and 40's
rest in haphazzard lines.
I wonder if any of my blood lies beneath the rich fetid soil.
Cameron crest on chain that sat by my chest leaves my hand
and disappears into the swollen stream; returned.
The wind picks up the vail of rain and throws it across my face
the crooked timber groans
I swear the rushing wind off Ben Nevis whispered;
'welcome home!'
Comet Coach and Comrades.(U.S.S.R 1986)
Our rainbow coloured coach bounces
down the skinny strip of broken tar
that pretends to be the highway
from Leningrad to Moscow via Novgorod.
We are laughing, drinking warm beer,
heads spinning to stereo rock and roll
as dark faced peasants stare in awe
at our multi-coloured comet on Goodyears.
Around us Chernobyl's after birth
drifts invisibly in the warm sweet air.
We are only passengers in time.
They can only live, wait and hope.
We break out the rip cap bottled vodka
drink a toast to a new peaceful world,
curse the bloody Arab terrorists and shiver
as we pass two miles of T-74 battle tanks.
Every village and town has a monument
to those who died in the Great Patriotic War 1941-1945,
all twenty million or so.
I realise now, why they cannot forget.
We thread our way through towering concrete
apartment blockhouses not unlike those of
London, New York, Sydney,
only the colours change,
the people are the same.
SYDNEY
(from a train window in the rain)
Dense, green, wet
concrete and brick castles
train rattles through this jungle
a drab wet blur
intermittent bright interjections
slippery streets and intersections
back lane pools, plots, clothes lines
long metal snakes weave
inbetween tight terraced cells
yellow eyes metronome flashing
not going anywhere fast
lanes, broken homes, bars
grids, grills, cellular phoneys
track-side - spray - cans.
Burwood, Summer Hill, McDonaldtown?
does anyone live in this post-industrial swamp?
weeping rail history Eveleigh
fading signs, facades, forgotten faces
Redfern - pain
towers distant in the mist
Central, memories, steam, blank faces
corrigated platform people
wet rails and roads
the sky is crying
SRV becones from a warm pub
Sydney, dripping, seathing, teaming,
- rain.
(C) David Cameron 1997.
© 1997 david.cameron@mailbox.uq.edu.au
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