Miners Turn To Face The Cold Poem by Gerry Legister

At last, the voice of coal is dead,
Buried lamps carried on the head,
Miners sang the unforgiving dirge,
With fragments of particles emerge,
Drilling hammers that smote the ground
Never again to hear its rumbling sound,
Voices roar like dragons in damp vapour,
Highlights the dangerous drudgery caper.
Miners turn to face the cold idle breeze
Diggers of caves brought to their knees.
Dust off running tears in nocturnal eyes
Sparkle in pay dissonant redundancies,
Tipping the poison pour out of their coat,
Hem and skirt tossed away in good wave,
Blockade collapsing stairs of the brave,
Sadden hearts ending the way of life,
Kiss the face they abandon with cheek,
Dirty power of the industrial revolution
The demise ends centuries of tradition,
Looks that lost on the cloudy grey glare,
In tunnels bearing signature of slender tear,
Rippled down the jagged wall mirrors
Narrow roads in loops of fuel suspended,
Rows of tombs down on the cold bed
Dead voices calling from the depth of earth,
Snuffed out the union in oblivion wrath,
the dripping tar of brooms lay on the floor,
Once the nation's daily meal for the poor,
The pit is shut leaving the empty trucks
As souvenirs burden bearing buckets.
And the last part of murky breath exhale,
Was coal in declined of this cold turmoil?
Can we face climate change of clean living?
In the beautiful candescent global warming.