NaPoWriMo #23: Rivers of Coal

Up in the hills where the collieries sleep,
where the railway tracks are submerged in moss,
the wheels atop the tower seem to weep
the stones in the blacksmith's yard are all glossed
in a dwindling frost fleeing from the spring.
Caverns beneath the hills vast and still,
adorning the grey cliffs to which they cling,
sheltering sheep against the mountain chill.
The descendants live in the past's shadow
claim the ruins for their own, make them new,
no longer the halls where molten fires flow
but a monument to the mining crew.
Within these hills run the rivers of coal
that brought to the valleys their heart and soul

(And so, to celebrate the birthday of his majesty the Shakespeare, I bring you a sonnet about that most familiar of Welsh subjects.)

NaPoWriMo #4: Sleet

The weather's not sure, should it rain or snow?
It's supposed to be April, time for spring,
but it seems the forecasters don't know
that spring sunshine can be a fickle thing.
 year's worth of frozen ice falls en masse.
For anyone out in the open air,
they should've just given this one a pass,
for the sleet will bring its wrath to bare
on all humans, mammals and birds alike.
Ice in my shoes, in my coat, up my nose,
what madness told me to try and hitchhike
through such freezing chaos I'll never know.
    Be sure to check the next weather forecast.
    You can never be sure if spring will last.