Sleep

 A rarity these days - a mining poem.

My first poem in this burst of writing, back in 2016, was "10 Minutes", about my mum's Uncle Jim. I had written very much in a traditional form (ballad), and I stand by that poem. Since then, I've learnt a lot and found different styles. This represents a second take on the sad story. Is one better than the other? I don't know, I'll leave that up to you. 

 

 

 

Sleep

Sleep comes quickly to the mining man,

muscles hardened in the choking dark

repaired by blood that knows it may be spilled,

primed by a heart that's borne its share of work.  

He dreams of sunlight, air not thick

with particles that float and gently 

stain the earth from which they came. 

He breathes with a faint wheeze,

gentle as a child as in his dream 

he grows to giant size, picks up some slag

in one great hand and with the other tears

the pit head from its roots. He fills

the hole fist by fist, dust and rocks

seeping through long fingers, callouses

as big as the wheel that still spins,

ignores the flailing, half-mile rope

that lashes at his blue-stained cuts. 

 

The hole is filled, he pounds and pounds 

at the blackened earth, shakes foundations,

roars to the sun and drinks the northern rain. 

His eyes are open now, just enough; he feels

the dreadful weight upon his chest. The roof 

is gone, he squeezes out a rasping breath
and sleep comes quickly to the mining man.

Tim Fellows September 2020

Image by Willi Heidelbach from Pixabay