Our valley grew

acres of waving corn.

Around and far beyond,

full green with

the crop’s of life,

the meadow fruits, berries,


and hedgerow’s of roses

heady with a scent

nothing could dispel.


Our valley also brewed

an awesome blight

people called “the heaps”

towering peaks

of slag from the mine,

black by day,

at night they burned

bright with the fires from hell.

Men named it “The Pit “

some of them died there

and boy’s

none fared well.


I think of them still

robust men,

clinging to life,

drowning in dust.

No never did a rich man

come out of that sink

of infamy.