This poem is posted to mark the first day of the public closure of the National Coal Mining Museum of England.
There are no rats
streaming off from rigged ships,
No bell clanging
crier calling out the dead,
No trundling
overburdened tumbrils led
By masked spectres as
the malady grips.
No crosses daubed
over doors, though handles
And handshakes could
prove fatal. Fast as fear
This plague flies, a traveller’s
souvenir
Round the carousel of
the world, dandles
Life and death
without intent or purpose
Other than its own
being. City shaken,
Markets deserted and
futures tumbling.
The preachers of
profit are at a loss,
While pubs are
closing, last orders taken.
Lock all the doors…but
the walls are crumbling.
Dave Alton
