I remember. 


Wet eyed, I watched miners broken by grief cradle their brothers' offspring as if to give 

them in death the shelter denied them in their schoolroom in Aberfan. I didn't hear it said 
then, but now, wet eyed once more, reflecting, imagine the question formed about the 
terrible penance paid for being a miner – pay not only in your own, your father's, your 
brothers' blood, but also that of your innocents. And who exacted this deathly tribute? A 
vengeful earth weeping black and muddy and life consuming tears for the rape? A mighty 
God wanting to confirm his capacity for capriciousness and cruelty, and remind his errant 
flock of their lack of grace by lessons in pain and suffering? A syllabus of death examined 
and invigilated by blind and mute angels? 
Mothers rocking in cold and silent rooms nursing tiny phantoms. Bitter tears welling from 
eyes that will always come back to see these moments, no matter how much time heals 
the wound. Separate men avoiding each other's look. Not able to sing yet. Voice too 
unsure. Best to let others sing for you just now. 
And sing for the bairns.


Bill Benfell (Australia)