The Common

The Common


Have you ever seen Gelligaer common in summer?
It’s not like Barry beach full of chip wrappers and
Old ice cream cones pointy bit up in the sand.



Somewhere, between this morning and last winter,
a pile of old tires have sprung shoots and grown
A green grassy mass just left of a ford focus burnt
Out after Christmas, and now, rusting prettily
Among the ferns.
A tent was pitched last night, too close to ours,
and the smell of sex and lubricant is still thick
In the morning air. We say good morning with a half raised hand
As we ram poles back into canvas bags and wonder, will he be back
In time for breakfast with his wife and kids?
He’s a pro.  His mallet has banged a few pegs in its time
And the gentle slopes that stretch back toward Bargoed
Still play host to his abandoned packs of three,
And closer still, towards Dowlais, on the old mountain road,
Some girl’s knickers hang from a silver birch like a ceremonial
Flag. A triumphant recognition for a sexual conquest.
A low wall, perfect for sitting if you mind the needles
And the scattered remains of kitchen foil, gives a wide clear view
Rugged with hills and steep climbs, rolling downwards and upwards
Cwm Bargoed to the Cross, and save an odd crawling car and the blank
Staring sheep, there is no one.



Have you ever seen Gelligaer common in summer?
It’s not like Barry beach, alive somehow still with its tourism.
Gelligaer common in summer is much the same as winter
Except, its light enough to see the place rotting.