Calon Lân

For audio click here  (worth a listen today me thinks) 

The factory that towered over the town was shrouded in the smog that it had helped to produce. The tyrannical building dominated the skyline like a gothic castle casting a shadow over all of those who lived in the terraced houses below. But the chimney was no longer bellowing smoke across the dark skies. Men no longer worked the machines, women no longer made the teas. An eerie silence hung over the deserted halls. Water dripped from a leaky pipe, a rat scuttled across the grimy floor but otherwise, all was still.

The town was also empty; an old lady taking in washing from her garden was the only sign of life.  Light rain hung in the air, too lazy to fall to the ground.

Like a lullaby the sound of song drifted on the breeze. Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus. Louder and louder it got, deep baritone voices and fragile Sopranos, men; women and children singing beautifully. Calon onest.  Calon lân. The old lady could see them now. All the towns folk in their Sunday best marching up the hill towards the factory. Calon lân yn llawn daioni.  They carried their banners, and their placards demanding justice. They marched with their heads held high and in the middle, the pallbearers took precise measured steps, the coffin proudly on their shoulders. Dim ond calon lân all ganu.

Inside the factory, laughter came from a plush office - at odds with the rest of the grime. Cigar smoke hung in the still air. The voices of the townspeople grew louder and louder, but the laughter grew louder still.

They were at the locked gates now. The people fanned out around the factory walls. Canu’r dydd a chanu’r nos. The voices trailed away as the pallbearers reached the gates. They stooped and lowered the coffin to the floor.

“Comrades,” Carwyn Lewis’s voice boomed.

“We are gathered here to day to celebrate the life of…”

Deep in the bowels of the building the cigar smoker could hear the muffled voice of Lewis and the cheers of the crowd, but he didn’t care. A rowdy rabble couldn’t harm him, not now His laughter became harder still. There was a clink of glass and a glug of liquid.

“Comrades, we must fight this battle and the next and the next.” The crowd cheered. “Together, united, a band of brothers and sisters, we will find strength, we will win our struggle.”

No order was given, no signal made, but as one, the men, women and children charged the gates. The rusted hinges soon gave way and the masses flocked into the courtyard that they’d crossed so many times before. No one really knew what they were going to do, but that didn’t matter, they were doing something.

A fat finger flicked a switch. The factory speakers crackled into life and the haunting laugh rang around the grounds. People froze, stopped to look at the laughing sky. Fear formed on faces. Eyes darted around. Then the fat finger flicked another switch.

Boom.

The explosion could be heard in Cardiff. Debris rained down on the courtyard. Flames leapt. Children screamed. Laughter cracked and died in the rubble of the factory.  Calon onest.  Calon lân.
To hear the song a lot better than I sang it click here