With memories mint fresh of childhood days I neared the market town
Passed cottages stone-scrubbed, glass doored, with windows nylon-draped
Passed roof-tops spouting aerials, steel gloaming in the rain
The terraced uniformity of once grey streets from which I had escaped.
Was there no more? What other changes would I find on my visit again?
The war memorial 'To the glorious dead', round which Hugh Price would sit and reminisce
And share his Woodbines with Dai Rees, stood weather-crusted in the square
The market hall, once bustling with the farmers' wares - Welsh butter, lamb and cheese
And nightly thrilling audience on wooden seats with films of Fred Astaire,
Now looked a faded beauty queen, torn bingo posters flapping in the breeze.
This was God's house, where hallelujahs filled the air and oratorios rose high
Where vows were made and christenings blessed and sermons heard
And after every fervent prayer old Josh would echo his 'Amen'
And prim kid-gloved Miss Lloyd would always kneel
And Thomas at the organ thunder forth
Where everyone in Sunday best was there
I hurried down the path where once confetti lay
And kicked the orange peel.
