I wish I could have thought of a better, more fitting title. I wish I could write poetry better. There’s nothing worse than feeling the urge to write something in response to a tragedy, and not having the appropriately honed skills for the job. But the urge was too great.
To learn more about the Aberfan disaster, visit: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aberfan_disaster
Black. The valley was turning black
Where the basilisk slumbered.
The beast’s heel slides,
Starting slowly, rising fast,
A tremendous speed.
Turning itself into a pitch-dark wave; wet, wild,
Down towards the mountain
Down towards the village
Diving into the mist.
Roaring like a jet plane,
Screaming through the fog.
Scales glistening black.
It gorges itself on trees, on rocks, on homes.
Swelling to fantastical enormity
In its murderous descent.
It tips the sky
Arcing over the Green Hollow,
Dashing itself against the saint, slain martyr.
Its tail lashes the church bells tongue,
All. Is. Silent.
Nature is speechless.
Bent beneath the disregarding sky
Raw hands rake polished bile.
Salt the spoil.
Pierce the calcified hide.
And within the belly of the beast
A boy waits.
With death on his shoulder.