Rain-washed to fresh, Cornish air
smells of historic spoil.
Landscape to sigh for its bare
granite coastline can boil
with stormy anger at times
while between gales rocks bask
sun-baked for secluded miles.
Hinterland littered with shafts,
now leveled, age -old flat lodes
make for much visitor pleasure
along merry summertime stroll.
Paths used to heave carts heavy
with mine-waste boys' backs bound
with thick ropes, worked-out pits
leave ghosts of the thousands
who met young ends, unfitted
for black hours in a hellish mouth.
They for a pittance kept bread
on home tables when not found
was fair living elsewhere.
Beauty abounds, yet tourists
who see through mine walls hear
calls of those souls trapped in
falls of earth, crying with fear.
Heartache dis-colours land's
heritage when much abuse
of bal-maids and lads leave sad
reminders of shifts' ruthless
length, when weary to death
bare feet stumbled homeward
eyes half closed and foodless slept
clothed before starting again.
Hard were the days when rich grew
richer on backs of the poor.
-
Author:
Fay Slimm. (
Offline) - Published: June 6th, 2017 03:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 34
Offline)
Comments6
Very good write with great imagery.
They were hard times but have things changed?
A poem with realism and poetic imagery, makes us aware of the sights & sound of old Cornwall! -Raj
A fine write F.
Beautiful poem, Fay, summed up nicely in the last two lines. I submit that nothing much has changed, just that the servitude has become much more subtle. Kudos on another fine one!
I agree with Louis - great poem and last two lines still applies although with a little more subtleness these days.
Tin and copper mines can go down pretty deep. We definitely need some recompense for laborers after they are spent.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.