The Big Pit

has long drive from main gate a rich house. Six
Security guards sit in one floor old building , play cards, warm ourselves
ogle gash.

Door reached through slurry tides
slosh into wellies.
Coal packed trucks roar past their tyres twice your size.

Walkroadside. Don’t wadethrough. Slurrysea yawns
causeway edge to middle.You are blind. Some potholes sink beyond deep as England.

Pick your way with care over gantries.
One guard lost grip, Caught hold
just saw his
hard hat somersault thirty feet down hit
brown wet mud and slip under duvet smooth.

Keep two-by-four handy for up top
coals piled up. Eastwards from village
come up
tonight. Sell it door to door when it’s nicked
and we’ve not given them good hiding.

Mrs O’Brien gives us Christmas dinner Christmas Day. Warm plates in Tommys microwave.
Little Billy’ll be bring his t.v., again.
And after your snap if you get bored
you can
always go on patrol outside.

Don’t forget your Walkie Talkie for
Takes good four hours trog round perimeter.

Watch for Mad Monk as he walks in mud
All pits have ghosts.
Monasteries under slag.
Don’t tell no Archaeologist.
Stop production. Jobs on line.

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