“One afternoon from a council school

A boy came home to play.

With paints and coloured pencils

And his homework for the day.

We've got to paint the valley, Mam,

For Mrs Davies art.

What colour is the valley, Mam?

And will you help me start?”

—Max Boyce, “Rhondda Grey” 

—

I throw a saddle on ole Sam 

and head out.

It’s rainin’ fish ‘n chips.

I’m wearin’ a yellow slicker,

Sam ain’t wearin’ nothin’

but a set a ole worn out shoes.

We ride down Rattlesnake Ridge.

Don’t see no rattlesnakes.

Don’t see much.

This sort a day was meant for something else.

Cold water drippin’ down your neck

sets a somber tone.

Sam, ole thing, sing me a song.

Sam says something low under his breath

which I can’t hear but get the drift.

We ride along for a spell

looking at wet cows and shiverin’.

I start in hummin’.

Thoughts of far ‘way places come to mind.

Thoughts of things, well, things warm and soft.

Things a cowboy misses, sometimes,

when he’s been alone one too many nights.

There’s all those ole songs

about the Streets of Laredo, and Get Along Little Doggie,

and one hell of a lot of new songs 

about Takin’ Your Love to Town, 

and bein’ a Red Neck Woman, which I am not.

No, I’m far away, somewhere, somewhere . . . 

oh, just say it, over the rainbow,

where skies are blue . . . 

Here it comes . . . to hell with Sam—

“Shall I paint the Con Club yellow,

And paint the the Welfare blue?”

Sam, you say a word and you’ll feel my spurs.

I see a calf off to itself

and march it back to mama.

“Paint old Mr Davies red

And all his pigeons too?”

Sam’s ridin’ easy.

Still, it ain’t happy ridin’.

“Paint the man who kept our ball—

Paint him looking sad?

What colour is the valley, Mam?

What colour is it Dad?”

The color’s drained from the ‘scape.

Gray as the inside of a cloud.

Me and Sam seen a lot a days like this.

I hear a hawk cry.

“Dad, if Mam goes down to the shop

To fetch the milk and bread,

Ask her fetch me back some paint—

Some gold and white and red.

Ask her fetch me back some green,

(The bit I've got's gone hard.)

Ask her to fetch me back some green;

Ask her, will you Dad?”

Green . . . the grass’s green, but the leaves, no.

What I want is color.

And something warm, and something soft.

This ole saddle’s growin’ hard.

The creek’s runnin’ full.

The wind’s picked up.

“His father took him by the hand

And they walked down Albion Street,

Down past the old Rock Incline

To where the council put a seat,

Where old men say at the close of day

'Dy'n ni wedi g'neud ein siar'

And the colour in their faces says,

'The tools are on the bar.

The tools are on the bar.”

We cross the creek.

Here’s the ole house place,

nothin’ but dabbers' nests 

and old magazines paperin’ the walls—

she closed her eyes at night

and dreamed of colors bright.

“And that's the colour that we want

That no shop has ever sold.

You can't buy that in Woolies, lad,

With your reds and greens and gold.

It's a colour you can't buy, lad,

No matter what you pay.”

Woolies, Sam—

and straight seams pointin’ north.

The rain’s turned to mist. 

A touch of spur.

“But that's the colour that we want:

It's a sort of Rhondda Grey.”

Cold sheets tonight.

`