Rain thrashed and lashed and
Pin-prick hail stabbed and taunted
The small polling station on the hill.
Sheep roamed free here
In this timeless place
An unspolit Welsh idyll.
It was polling day, voting day
A day to have your say.
Marking the paper, validating: you count.
They came from the cottages,
With impossibly beautiful Welsh names,
And from the village centre as one.
They came out that day
In rain and hail and blasting wind
To mark the paper. Have their say.
Proud of their democratic right
Their views on it all…
Or simply to do what’s right.
Scaffolded with sticks
Propped on loved ones
Soothed by pain killers
They came.
And they wore a smile, those voters
They were here again
Making their mark on the paper.
Some may say, “What difference does one vote make?”
And if you hadn’t seen, how would you know?
But if you had seen, you would never ask again.