Chain of Colliers

Spring

At long last…light,

Time of renewal, relief, hope,

Looking forward to colour.

Blue sky, grey sky, herringbone.

Warm rain, howling rain, relief.

Getting rid of grime.

Clearing burdensome clutter

Gives sense of freedom.

Looking forward to better times,

But backward to what is lost.

Time for action plan,

Memorable moments – bring ‘em on!

Learn, love, laugh, grow.

Summer

It’s here! We’ve waited so long

To cast off winter’s burden.

Smells of grass and food,

People mingling, laughing, free

Briefly from routine.

Winding down – put toothbrush in

Carrier with spare knickers.

It’s hard to imagine

The grime, the crowds, the noise,

Now the pits have gone.

Incarceration was cruel,

Ponies slaving underground.

Autumn

The colours are nice,

If only it didn’t get colder

And damp, grey and dark.

One over – I would have cried.

Year older – I’m older – Thanks!

Thoughts drift to summer,

To sunny days and light nights…

But winter comes next.

Now what will it be today?

Not bread and dripping again!

Nights are drawing in,

Time to start wearing me vest.

Thought summer wouldn’t end.

Winter

Quilt days, hoodie days, book days,

Thick socks, fleece throw, have go – right?

Scary the unknown,

How do we look forward in hope?

Present in turmoil.

Did Shakespeare write on mines?

A Winter’s Tale must come close.

Lighten the darkness,

Illuminating my world,

Lamp unto my feet.

Now the earth can be reclaimed,

Restored for a greener future.

Renga composed by Dave Alton

From verses written by Coalshed Poets:

Marian Barker

Claire Crossdale

Jean Hales

Darkness Unhurried

How darkness echoes having been buried,

Absence of hurriers, darkness unhurried,

While depths of earth being no longer measured

By stomach churned seconds, and the long leisured

No longer count their leisure. Deep, deep down

In an undrawn drawer, rolled in old brown

Paper, the silver-set pendant is not jet,

But polished Barnsley hard, shining as wet

Even after all these years. Grandad fashioned it

On days between pickets, so impassioned it

Is difficult to recall the pressing need,

Urgent need for precise faceting. Freed

From necessity for one idle day,

She’d stood by the kerbside on Pithill Way

Watching the Anthracite Sisters process,

Barefooted and in closed ranks, to confess

Their calling to redundancy, the shock

At their closing order, to the headstock,

Unwound winding gear bound with steel hawsers

For scrap. Since then, or so she supposes,

The nominal value in that shaped shard

Of silver-set and hand-worked Barnsley hard,

Should remain as an echo, left buried

In her drawer, in darkness unhurried.

                                                                Dave Alton