Reaching out in unending lines
Houses of the valleys, all the same
In their uniform of dereliction and decay
Clinging on to the hillside, like old people
Clinging on to the old way of life.
Smoke rises from the chimneys
Catching the last fading sunlight
of the promising summer of plenty,
Falling soon to the sills in black sooty smuts
Where sometimes people sit and stare.
The empty streets echo in the silence
of tack boots on the cobblestones,
Black windows stare at me with accusation
Betrayal screams at you with her evidence
in the houses of the valleys.
By Ann Hughes (1992)