Briton Ferry Llansawel

Briton Ferry Llansawel

By the winding Neath, where water sighs,
Old stone bridges guard the quiet tide,
Rows of terraced houses wear the skies
Of slate‑grey clouds that softly glide.

The whistle of the long‑gone train
Still hums in memory’s gentle hum,
While market stalls and chapels strain
To keep the Welsh heart beat and drum.

Footpaths wander past the old pit’s mouth,
Where coal once blackened the valley’s breath,
Now wildflowers spill their southern mouth,
Painting hope in green and heath.

Evening falls, a amber gleam
Upon the river’s patient flow,
And Llansawel whispers in a dream—
A town that loves, and longs to grow.