Poem for Port Talbot

I'm surprised they let you go on for as long as they did belching your filth and smell. 

'Odour de Port' is what I remember best about travelling passed you on the M4,

 in a vehicle made out of what you produced.

If you hadn't, I would have had to walk.

When I see you, I think of Aberavon Rugby Club and Tai Bach

You, the workers are Wizards, Merlins at your metal

and I salute you for your graft 

I couldn't do it, for pretend poets

do not have calloused hands.

Your futures are now in the hands of politicians and businessmen.

They couldn't do your work either.

You're all pawns in the game.

Shame.