Ye OLE Stable at Ponthir

A picture of a field that has been built on with the ever increase of urban scrawl.

Row on row of house of brick

No longer the sound of the bar bah of sheep and neighing of donkey or of horse.

Or even the sight of children in fresh frock of their Sunday best. Pick and make a daisy chain or the ever familiar butter cup picked from the field of bright fresh green grass.

Often held under ones chin to see a reflection of rich yellow.

And to say do you like butter>.

The trains still pass by or thunder on the old coarse of the old tram road and the Avon Lwyd river still flows.

But the past ever green field of grass now will never grow through tarmac and concrete.

Remains now Only perhaps in a well tended mock up of a field a patch or lawn.

Mown with the sounds of a whistle on the wind and more deafening to its owners hearing to afflict on one's earring in later life.

The chore of first on Sun drenched day. E dam pandemic mower sound.

Enjoy times now and remember well

Look back I now. In future times so will you.

Nothing is forever