Post by Administrator on Sept 2, 2010 21:45:20 GMT
Barry Docks, once described as: “The Gateway to the World”.
Barry Docks - Port of Ports!
The sights and sounds of her golden days have long since passed their ways,
but I’ve heard tell that when sea runs high and low black clouds scud the sky, that sometimes – if you are very still - echoes from the past float by and fill the mind with a port that once stood proud and high.
But, do you know why?
No ! Well let me tell you!
Because it was a port of ports .... the biggest and busiest
coal exporting port in the whole wide world!
So, listen - very quietly .....
To the swans and ducks on the Sully moors,
cavorting and splashing about their chores.
The bark of the fox, the hoot of an owl,
where rabbits frolic and badgers growl.
The clipperty-clop of the milkmaid’s mare.
The leisurely gait of the coalman’s ‘pair’.
The cockerels that crow to the morning dew.
(Then there were many – now, just a few)
The high pitched whistle of the old ‘steam’
trains as they rattle along the ‘valley lanes’,.
laden with coals for the forty odd tips
which ceaselessly pour it in waiting ships.
Shunting and clanging as ‘buffers’ slam tight.
Tippers and trimmers at work – day and night.
The rumble of coals, The great palls of dust
Houses engulfed ‘midst a windswept black ‘rust’.’.
Whillst way out at sea, embedded in fog
the Breaksea moans like a tethered dog:
warning the ships from all over the world
that Barry Roads is completely enswirled.
The hatches are full and the ‘Plimsol Line’
can scarce be seen through the dust and grime.
Toots from the tugs! Blasts from the ship!
Ropes splash away – and they’re off on their trip.
Seas of black faces fan out from the dock
at the close of each shift – ‘dead on the clock’.
Trains to the Island are sights to behold,
jammed tight with those who’ hew the black rust’.
High tide on the ‘Island’ Beaches packed tight.
The sand and the seaweed all hidden from sight.
Yet, by train and bus, they come – more and more,
just to paddle and ‘bake’ where the sea meets shore.
Hush, less you miss the last echoes that say,
school bells for lessons and church bells to pray.
Whillst down on ‘The Square’ in its lonely tower
the old ‘town clock’ strikes every hour.
Alas, the illusion fades softly away
to leave us facing a different day,
and as the sun shatters the early dawn
those of us left are glad we were born
in time to have shared in a golden age
when Barry was the port of ports !!!
Author Unknown.
Barry Docks, once described as:“The Gateway to the World”.
Barry Docks - Port of Ports!
The sights and sounds of her golden days have long since passed their ways,
but I’ve heard tell that when sea runs high and low black clouds scud the sky, that sometimes – if you are very still - echoes from the past float by and fill the mind with a port that once stood proud and high.
But, do you know why?
No ! Well let me tell you!
Because it was a port of ports .... the biggest and busiest
coal exporting port in the whole wide world!
So, listen - very quietly .....
To the swans and ducks on the Sully moors,
cavorting and splashing about their chores.
The bark of the fox, the hoot of an owl,
where rabbits frolic and badgers growl.
The clipperty-clop of the milkmaid’s mare.
The leisurely gait of the coalman’s ‘pair’.
The cockerels that crow to the morning dew.
(Then there were many – now, just a few)
The high pitched whistle of the old ‘steam’
trains as they rattle along the ‘valley lanes’,.
laden with coals for the forty odd tips
which ceaselessly pour it in waiting ships.
Shunting and clanging as ‘buffers’ slam tight.
Tippers and trimmers at work – day and night.
The rumble of coals, The great palls of dust
Houses engulfed ‘midst a windswept black ‘rust’.’.
Whillst way out at sea, embedded in fog
the Breaksea moans like a tethered dog:
warning the ships from all over the world
that Barry Roads is completely enswirled.
The hatches are full and the ‘Plimsol Line’
can scarce be seen through the dust and grime.
Toots from the tugs! Blasts from the ship!
Ropes splash away – and they’re off on their trip.
Seas of black faces fan out from the dock
at the close of each shift – ‘dead on the clock’.
Trains to the Island are sights to behold,
jammed tight with those who’ hew the black rust’.
High tide on the ‘Island’ Beaches packed tight.
The sand and the seaweed all hidden from sight.
Yet, by train and bus, they come – more and more,
just to paddle and ‘bake’ where the sea meets shore.
Hush, less you miss the last echoes that say,
school bells for lessons and church bells to pray.
Whillst down on ‘The Square’ in its lonely tower
the old ‘town clock’ strikes every hour.
Alas, the illusion fades softly away
to leave us facing a different day,
and as the sun shatters the early dawn
those of us left are glad we were born
in time to have shared in a golden age
when Barry was the port of ports !!!
Author Unknown.
Barry Docks, once described as:“The Gateway to the World”.
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