Aberfan, South Wales, 1966

 

Now there was a time when the sun did shine, on our valley all lively and gold,

But I’ll give you fair warning to turn away now, for tragedy’s suffered not told.

You see, the folk of the west were a hardy sort, stubborn and short and squat,

And the women they wed had tempers to dread yet a sweetness not swiftly forgot.

And the children of the vale were as merry and light as stars on a winter’s dawn,

And the folk, they fussed because they cared so much, as a doe dotes upon a fawn.

 

So they worked through the days and they hewed through the nights, and they toiled in the mine all year round,

And the harvest was good and the coal tubs were full and the houses were sturdy and sound.

And there was rarebit and ham, and milkshakes and crisps, and sweet pies a-steam on every sill.

And over it all, the willow tree waved, from its home on the top of the hill.

Then harvest day come and brought with it the fun, and the tables were laden and spread,

With butter and cream, and ripe summer jam, and honey and freshly baked bread.

 

It were feast day, you see, when the boot-maker’s boy spied a piper all dressed in green,

Who took off his hat and shared crumbs with the rats, with a wonder the deaf boy’d not seen.

But he thought little of it, because the cake was above it, and when he glanced up the pied man had gone.

For he never knew then that anyone he loved could ever come to any harm.

And nobody minded the boot-maker’s boy, with his eyes the colour of coal,

For there was wax in his ears and knots in his laces, and star-shaped holes in his sole.

 

And the rats hung around and they nibbled the crusts, and they ate what the good folk could spare,

But some stories end before they begin, and peace is both fragile and rare.

Now over the road, and across from the tree, the spoil heaps glowered and frowned,

And no man below slept well in his bed as the tip glared down at their town.

Folk wrote to complain, and then they wrote again, but no one heeded their distress.

So no spoil was removed, no safety improved, because the Coal Board knew what was best.

 

Now the deaf boy never heard the lilting music, nor the scraping back of tiny chairs,

But he saw them children follow, freed from all their sorrow, freed from their troubles and cares.

Some say it were the spoil tip what came for them, some say the choices of 1916,

But the boy said, ‘I were in school that day, and it were the piper I seen.’

And his teacher saw it, too, and knew it to be true, because she dropped her chalk upon the floor,

And like the boy she tried to follow, the music soft and hollow, but the spoil tip started to roar.

 

And the piper he played, and the children they strayed from the schoolroom with a skip and a thrill,

And he sang to them straight, and he sang to them true, and he sang them under the hill.

And they vanished, one by one, out of his sight like stars into a soot-smudged sky,

And the boot-maker’s boy, he limped after, and he fell to his knees with a cry:

‘Take me, too,’ he begged, ‘away from this place, to the faerie land under the hill­­––’

But the door closed tight behind the children that night, and the dusk weighed silent and still.

 

Then the spoil was upon them, and the world was a mayhem, and he saw and felt no more,

But he’d not forget his friends, right up until the end, go skipping through that faerie door.

And like a fool he tried to follow, like a lost migrating swallow, but the slag heap beat him there,

And it was then that he was buried, in the slurry he was carried, in coal-ash up to his hair.

And all through the day, the willow tree swayed, its branches all draping and green,

But it could not speak, of the stars beneath its feet, and the wonders its roots had seen.

 

And they dug the boy up, and hosed the boy down, and told him his friends were dead.

But it was the piper he’d seen, all pied and lean, and he couldn’t get him out of his head.

Then they dug through the rubble and the slurry, and they dug through the school and the homes,

And they dug up some stressed survivors, and they dug up some tiny bones.

But they never found the piper, or his silver flute, or the magic so bright and rare,

And over it all, the willow tree wept, out in the open air.

 

Then the boot-maker’s boy told of all he had seen, and no one believed a word,

And the mourners of the village trudged away, dismissing the wonders they’d heard.

For no one believed the boot-maker’s boy, with his eyes the colour of coal,

For there was wax in his ears and knots in his laces, and star-shaped holes in his sole.

Because nobody believed in magic no more after seeing the slag heaps pour.

Nobody believed in magic no more, so nobody knocked upon the door.

 

So they failed to heed the boot-maker’s boy, as they had failed to be heeded themselves,

And they’d not hear of doorways in hilltops, and they’d not speak of faeries or elves.

Because no one believed the boot-maker’s boy, with his eyes the colour of coal.

For there was wax in his ears and knots in his laces, and star-shaped holes in his sole.

For they prized the young and the healthy, as they praised the toil of the years,

So no one heeded the boot-maker’s boy, and his misplaced irrational tears.

 

And no one considered the tale of the lad, who said he’d been left behind,

And no one understood what it took to stay, when it was faeries for whom you pined.

And no one’s Caerphilly baked in an oven, and no one’s coffee wives did pour,

And no one ventured near the old green mound, and no one beat upon the door.

One hundred and sixteen buried, they said, and twenty-eight teachers, too.

But he saw his friends skip into the hill, behind a piper of green and blue.

 

Then the folk of the village grew heavy with grief, and grumpy if truth be told,

But the piper himself, he was light and lean, like a magpie both silky and bold.

And the willow tree wept upon its hillside, its branches both naked and cold,

And the folk grew mad, then they grew sad, and then they grew withered and old.

And still no one considered the doorway, or the simple soul who’d been left behind,

And the boot-maker’s boy walked home alone, because his dad had more folk to find.

 

So he lay that night, under stars so bright, with the piper still spinning through his head.

And come next morn, he lay tired and worn, and sleepless on his lumpy bed.

Now the parents, they blamed themselves, and then they blamed the press for being so mean,

Then the Coal Board, the mine, the powers that be, they even blamed the poor old Queen.

They say that willow-bark eases the hurt of heartbreak, loss and sin,

But I believe that the willow tree shades their long-lost innocent kin.

 

Yes, the piper he came and the pipe he played, and he spirited them children away.

But I know one thing about that piper: he weren’t in Hamelin that day.

Now I never had no children of me own, so I never really knew,

What it took for folk to carry on when their hearts were shattered right through.

And I too have aged and the years have passed, fifty-three now or is it fifty-four?

But I still remember the piper, though I’ll not speak of him any more.

 

Why did the piper lead them children away, for our rats were happy in town?

We never promised nought we did not give; no one left the feast with a frown.

’Cause bad things happen to wonderful folk: desolation, despair, and pain,

And when the piper piped them children away, our lives were never the same.

Is it so wrong I longed to go with them, to the faerie land under the hill?

Is there a song I could sing at the doorway to stop the ache I feel still?

 

Why did the piper lead me friends away, with their eyes so lively and bright?

And why did he choose our village, to come and snuff out the light?

Was it the houses we built near the mound, or the way we spoiled that mountain spring?

Was it that precious coal we mined that made them children take wing?

Or was it because he loved them, and he wanted them for himself?

Or was it because he’s nothing but a wicked tricksy elf?

 

And what if the piper was reluctant, but the children wanted to go?

What if it wasn’t the musician himself who tempted them all below?

Maybe nobody’s guilty, and nobody’s wrong, and nobody let us down,

Maybe this was just a theme that strayed through our tiny tragic town.

So why did the piper lead them children away and bury their memory so deep?

Why did their precious sacred souls, the piper decide to keep?

 

But as long as there are questions and doubts, the pain will stay the same.

And as long as that piper’s still piping, his mystery will always remain.

I sometimes think we are given much more than a soul can bear,

Then I find I’m still living, with wind blowing through me hair.

Because me dad, he were no miner, he were a boot-maker through and through,

But he went below when the boot-making slowed and the bill pile grew and grew.

 

And so here I am, and there we are, and the tale is finally told.

For fortune favours the merry and swift, not the limping, deaf, and old.

Because no one believed the boot-maker’s boy with me eyes the colour of coal,

For there’s wax in me ears and knots in me laces and star-shaped holes in me soul.

So I rise up out of me chair at last, and put me lame feet on the floor,

And I leave my holey soul behind me, and go a-knocking upon that faerie door.