The Depths of the Earth
Black raindrops race down the slick plastic coat
The muddy coal drops, fall one by one from the sleeve
That is empty.
The other hand, as black as the raindrops
Grips the sooty rail, attached to the sooty wall, of the sooty mine.
Black gold, chunks and dust, never quite settling on the ground
But on the hands and faces, and minds of the miners.
The empty sleeve’s arm
Lies in another mine a long way and time away
The man never smiles whilst down in the dark
For the dust does not permit any joy.
And when he cries,
No one knows;
For his tears are as black as the raindrops
Which run down his once-yellow coat.
His bone dry eyes
Have seen a thousand blacknesses
And have remembered every single one.
His arm in a mine far away
Still has a watch on the wrist (the Timex that his father gave him)
The hands have long since stopped moving around.
But, now, it matters not, for no one can see in perpetual night.
And now the man moves through the ink mist
Slaps his thigh, turns to the cage with a sigh
And rises to the laser-light day.
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