Outside, Tom's Bar
Wood Road, Treforest
dry heather on the hill turns mid-October brown
and dirty concrete curdles, like stale cream
on flat-roofed building blocks.
Treforest was a mining town
before the pits closed.
You wouldn't know it now.
Students are the main source of income
and thirsty men go searching for jobs.
Inside, there's Tom Jones on the wall,
beer-stained tables and every Wednesday
Open Jam night.
tattoos and ponytails
customers as worn out as the coal
or the green grass billiard table.
There's a mix of ages, locals and students,
my daughter and friends gathered about the table,
English and Irish accents merging
and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me
sung in in the Cymru tongue,
allowing me to ignore
that I'm growing old.
There's 'Death by Cider',
magic tricks, laughter and a mix of music
songs from the seventies
Apple sweet, old Beatle numbers
drunken loud mouths calling out requests.
There are fingers strumming
electric guitars beside the bar
A nocturnal, Irish lad, hair dark as Guiness
adjusts the amplifier, plays backup
for a Welshman
who's searching 'for a heart of gold'
voice as rich as Treforest's
autumn red leaves in the road outside.