Archive for August, 2018


There used to be more here
More walls of stone
More roofs of slate
More paths to walk
More noise from looms
More people coming into the valley
And then we had more water
More brought less
Less people, less looms, less noise, less stones
But less can be more
Now there is more trees, more plants
More insects, more birds
More peace and tranquillity
Sometimes less seems more
It all depends how you look at it


A coal mining child

My life is measured
By the hour I get up
My walk down the hill
To the coal pit at the bottom
The darkness of the opening
I stoop so low to enter
The crawl on hands and knees
Of hard skin and cuts
Through mud and water
To get to my father the miner
Sat naked digging at the face
To get coal to power society
In this blackest of blacks
No sunlight can penetrate
I must load chunk after chunk of coal
Onto the corve that I push
On my own, alone, back to the sunlight
And to air I can breathe
No time for rest I must carry on
Turn around and repeat this process
Till here are no more corves of coal
To push from the darkness
Sometimes it is dark before I finish
I have no food or water until I do
When I get home a quick meal
And then bed so I can repeat this
Process tomorrow
And the day after
Until I die

A corf (pl. corves) also spelt corve (pl. corves) in mining is a wicker basket or a small human powered (in later times in the case of the larger mines, horse drawn) minecart for carrying or transporting coal, ore, etc.[1] Human powered corfs had generally been phased out by the turn of the 20th century, with horse drawn corfs having been mostly replaced by horse drawn or motorised minecarts mounted on rails by the late 1920s. Also similar is a Tram, originally a box on runners, dragged like a sledge.


we’ve paid our money

watched the show

listened to the performers

enjoyed ourselves

we drink free wine

eat too much free pizza

talked about situations

we’ve never faced

and as i leave he lays there

partially hidden in the opening in the wall

he raises his arm

is he trying to catch my attention?

is it a last act of defiance to a

world that has been cruel o him?

his home a concrete bunker

is this the last place he will

breathe the fresh crisp air of a summers evening?

all i can do is turn away from him

walk past this bundle of flesh and bones

and immediately reflect on

what i could have done

what i should have done

to give him a glimmer of hope

that in this unforgiving world he inhibits

there is still some humanity

 

as i drive home away from him

i depress the accelerator pedal

to get away from him

to get away from the situation

get away from my feelings of guilt

of what i could have done

of what i should have done