Dying to be there

Look to the land in the north

a new world has sprouted

I remember being there.

On loan to me as my birth rite

I watched it grow

spread it’s black wings

dirty slag-mountains of waste

from the bowels of the earth

where no man should go,

go they did in their thousands

fearless and feisty

groveling with shovels and pick

deeper and ever deeper

in their endless mole-holes

of black gold

constantly spitting

at the lung splitting death dust

that conquered the air.

Death often came faster

from a fall of stone

an explosion of dust

a wayward tub

or an inundation

from only god knows where,

Homeward, at the end of their day,

hear the plod of boots

and that gut crunching cough,

watch them cling to a fence post,

finally stalled by the clean crisp air,

but they were never alone

for a friendly hand out of nowhere

and a voice is saying

come on mate!

I’ll be walking you home.

Bea Evans 2004 1 18