The Dream

Twm was a Rhymney collier and he worked his body to the bone in the daily peril of the pit. During the winter months he scarcely saw the light of day as he swopped the season’s gloom for the dungeon of the mine. Were it not for his young son, Bryn, the lustre of his life, Twm’s spirits would have been damp indeed.

They were the apples of each other’s eyes and it was Bryn’s bliss to hear his father tell such delightsome bedtime tales. The lad would nod off to sleep and peep through a dreamy keyhole into the kingdom of kindness.

One sundown, however, Bryn had a nightmare. Not of spooks and spectres, ghouls and gremlins, but one which was even more horrible. He saw his father lying at the bottom of the pit with huge flames licking his lifeless body.

Bryn woke up, pale as ashes, just as Twm was leaving for the morning shift, “Dad! Dad!” Don’t go, please,” stuttered Bryn, “Nightmare, too terrible for words, stay at home, I beg you!”

Sorry to see his son in such a state, Twm missed work to offer what comfort he could. Later that morning as they were playing out-of-doors and basking in the sunshine of each other’s company, a thunderous din came from the direction of the mine.

Looking up, father and son saw a cloud of smoke shroud the pithead…and Bryn’s eyes brimmed with tears.

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