My Grandfather walked from Somerset in England to the Rhondda valley to work in the Welsh coalfields.
It was 1919 and he had survived the first world war trenches. In 1932 he was killed by a runaway horse and cart that belonged to the local milkman as he went to start his early shift in the pit.


Walking back to the Rhondda with a dragon in my bag
Threatening fire and brimstone racing to get back
Crossing fields and rivers listening for the sound
Of all the ghosts who worked the mines who left life underground

In the hills they still remember when the nation loved their coal
No fear of dark pollution as the glowing fuel intoned
God bless them for their efforts keep them safe from harm
And let them take the short walk home to those that they have charmed

Let their virtue shout from houses only two up and two down
Keep them in the bossom of the righteous and profound
And in chapels let God almighty fill their bodies with the faith
These are the men whose soul is shown by just a blackened face

Its another hallelujiah from the voices as they sing
In village halls where simple men become the king of kings
The choirs of angels voices will never seem more pure
Than the sounds that fill the valley halls where good men do endure