12.5.96.
Wath - Queen of Villages - reigned
in her flower garden
her turnip grubbing fields
her pig pens and her byres
subjects tugging forelocks
native speech a country slide
years before the pits
-
When Wigan coalpits died
the King - black in workings underground
emerged in Wath to drag her subjects down
drawing men across the border
sinking them in daylight - or forever
in his pit Blueing them beneath
Sending hunker-squatters back to meet the Queen
pandas taken from her service
surfacing - to let her scrub their backs
remove the black
Men with coal-rimmed eyes
like kohl-brushed houris
in nights slaking dusty stomachs
black-lined heads
Scars blue as Royal Service
internal woad gained by ritual crawling to their workings
The Face - smiling its shining black teeth
sometimes biting tropic-naked bodies
sometimes swallowing them
regurgitating
sometimes swallowing for ever
Wailing whistles in the winding gear
women washing away with tears
service to the King of Coal
tracing the blue on silent faces -
thighs - stilled for ever
Wailing winding-sheets around
Returning them to greet the Queen
resting in her gentle soil
Replaced by sons and sons of sons
The King - voracious in his appetite
whispered that no learning
need come between
infancy and subjugation
A place was kept - lined with money
Slowly danger lessened underground
Machines protected men
Above they wandered in the dark
spoil-heaps - black buildings
blackened bushes - soot-flecked washing
on the line from Wigan
Sulphur clouds as yellow as the sun they masked
Cooling towers producing clouds
reigning over sky-clouds
rolling over men-of-darkness
soaking their sons
The King was growing old
his grip slipping
Wars fought by frightened men
to keep their subjugation
failed
-
The Queen of Villages
rested by her isolation
reclaimed her subjects and her garden
threw green across mountains -
dragged black from underground -
closed cooling-towers and re-invented sky
washed her trees and bushes into blossom in the Spring
cleared the eyes and voices of her singing birds
returned her men from pandahood
moved inside their heads
blowing away the black
Cushioned them richly from poverty
but not from poverty of spirit
Taught hard lessons
Hopeless empty-handedness
Insinuating empty spaces
Acceptance of the need to learn
burning brightly in their pit-pale eyes
etching into sons let loose upon the world
Wath - Queen of Villages - reigned
in her flower garden
her turnip grubbing fields
her pig pens and her byres
subjects tugging forelocks
native speech a country slide
years before the pits
-
When Wigan coalpits died
the King - black in workings underground
emerged in Wath to drag her subjects down
drawing men across the border
sinking them in daylight - or forever
in his pit Blueing them beneath
Sending hunker-squatters back to meet the Queen
pandas taken from her service
surfacing - to let her scrub their backs
remove the black
Men with coal-rimmed eyes
like kohl-brushed houris
in nights slaking dusty stomachs
black-lined heads
Scars blue as Royal Service
internal woad gained by ritual crawling to their workings
The Face - smiling its shining black teeth
sometimes biting tropic-naked bodies
sometimes swallowing them
regurgitating
sometimes swallowing for ever
Wailing whistles in the winding gear
women washing away with tears
service to the King of Coal
tracing the blue on silent faces -
thighs - stilled for ever
Wailing winding-sheets around
Returning them to greet the Queen
resting in her gentle soil
Replaced by sons and sons of sons
The King - voracious in his appetite
whispered that no learning
need come between
infancy and subjugation
A place was kept - lined with money
Slowly danger lessened underground
Machines protected men
Above they wandered in the dark
spoil-heaps - black buildings
blackened bushes - soot-flecked washing
on the line from Wigan
Sulphur clouds as yellow as the sun they masked
Cooling towers producing clouds
reigning over sky-clouds
rolling over men-of-darkness
soaking their sons
The King was growing old
his grip slipping
Wars fought by frightened men
to keep their subjugation
failed
-
The Queen of Villages
rested by her isolation
reclaimed her subjects and her garden
threw green across mountains -
dragged black from underground -
closed cooling-towers and re-invented sky
washed her trees and bushes into blossom in the Spring
cleared the eyes and voices of her singing birds
returned her men from pandahood
moved inside their heads
blowing away the black
Cushioned them richly from poverty
but not from poverty of spirit
Taught hard lessons
Hopeless empty-handedness
Insinuating empty spaces
Acceptance of the need to learn
burning brightly in their pit-pale eyes
etching into sons let loose upon the world
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