The Pitman

Your pike pounds the mountain’s side
sending a flash of white sparks into
the coal dusted roots of your red beard
still wet with sweat like the morning tide.
Through deafened ears, you hear only
murmurs from your daughters as they trace
the deep rooted coal veins of blackened
wrinkles in your withered face.

Now, but a mirage of who you used to be
before the wheezing cough that drains
your life in showers of darkened grains
like invisible pollen of an oaken tree.
Your churlish girls midst horses’ dung
see your sullied tears from bloodshot eyes,
fling catmint flowers, and bat the flies,
as you sing the last, your last song sung.