SEAMLESS CHANGE

Standing on this hill, this mounded culm chucked
Out from hollowed earth, where darkness sucked
Men down into its precious depths, pressed them
Beneath pages of rock hard to the seam,
The black seam and all its different damps,
To pick out, despite scarred backs and leg cramps
And the wheezing of props, their value in coal.
But then, another blackening, the fall
From favour, the locking of gates, sealing
Of shafts, with a bitter present stealing
The future, leaving only heritage.
So very difficult these days to gauge
From atop this hillock of rough-grassed spoil
Where the headstock once stood. That patch of soil
And clay, fenced and sapling planted, must be
The site of the bathhouse. Not much to see
Now for joggers and dog walkers, strollers
And fly-tippers, those casual callers
Whose fleeting footfalls leave barely a mark
And no echoes deep, deep down in those dark
Galleries settling beneath a country park.

                                                                                                Dave Alton