Frank Prem

mining

 

 

plink

 

plink

 

there is no sound

 

plink

 

other than the sharp rap

of a hand-pick

 

plink

 

against the seam

 

no light

but wisps

that dance before his eyes

 

plink

 

no time

except eternity

stretched blackly forward

from here

 

gone before the thought forms

from behind

 

plink

 

in the darkness

the walls become

like friends

their texture lies

in the same places

every time

and he

is just a shifting mote

of jet

in lightless night

 

plink

 

plink

 

when he leans

against the hard

of the seam

 

oh mother

is this home

 

which way is home

from here

 

plink

 

again

against the wall

that runs forever on

where it angles

to become the facing

 

a hand

that trembles

slightly

still knows what to do

as each strike descends

 

deep down

here

there is no sound

 

plink

 

there is no light

there is no time

there is nothing

 

plink

 

there’s just a man alone

mining

 

 

 

 

plink

 

~~~

 

© Frank Prem, 2016

Comments2

  • Goldfinch60

    Super evocative write.

    Plink

    Plink

  • Michael Edwards

    Really like this Frank - so evocative - my posting today is about:

    plonk

    plonk.



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