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I Stuffed Their Mouths With Gold
Convalesced amongst peaks and valleys,
Verdant and undulating over Afon Ebwy,
I paid my way through the colliery
With but a baker's dozen of years behind me.
Seduced by the hanging-left red scare,
I rejected ancient teachings and scripture
For a life of advocacy, plagued with
This body, my ever-failing vessel.
Conscribed to compulsory service,
My anatomy owned by some Great War,
Though my eyes could not be stilled
And danced their way through court-martial.
My name was tarred with a rebel’s brush,
My voice a stunted stammer in the crowd,
Drowned out by ferocious, roaring, howling
Sounds of male anguish.
“Ess, ess, ess” gave way to smooth sibilance,
And the hum of “muh” became thunderous.
“That is my truth! Now, what is yours?”
Words now etched into history’s pages.
I entered this life mute and timorous;
But I left it an orator for the ages,
My legacy of community care now tarnished
By bad legislation and worker exploitation.
The birthplace of my political opus
Is now nothing more than a building
Of sterile beds, and ghosts of a bright past
Floating aimlessly along lino corridors.
It is not this future that I’d foreseen,
The soul of Park frozen in eternal cold.
Is this what became of my life’s work
When I stuffed their mouths with gold?
Copyright ©
Han Marlowe Turner
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