There’s a hooded half-face
hidden in the full moon shadows.
As he gravel-crunches
along the familiar midnight pathway
of his nocturnal employment…
gently whistling ‘Sosban Fach’
to the phantoms of The Valley’s air.
Although, a quarter past middle-age,
he enthusiastically jumps the three steps
at the right-hand side of the Brewery,
and flicks the thin torch beam
quickly in front of himself,
with a teenagers mischievousness,
to write the name ‘Sian’ upon the wall.
Shrugging off the ‘Owl Hoot’ behind him
and the ‘Fox Yelp’ answering
from the unseen, crouching figures
moving rapidly and thief-like
along the hedgerow which borders
the left field and gateway.
He Stops for a ten minute smoke break
on the front carpark benches,
whilst wishing dreamily upon
the many Welsh falling stars.
The breaking of locks and greasing of bolts,
go unnoticed, at the back of the building…
and barrels of ale are rolled away,
almost silently, into the yawning night.