Mine was no tin-mine. Nothing grand, stark,
Brazen autumn red, evening sun aglow.
Brick upon stone upon stone, high rise
Above gorse, tawny fern, Cornish cliff.
As if briefly infinite, eternal.
Mine was just a path, an ordering of mud.
Unearthing stone. Shifting, straining unearthed stone
Inches, feet, yards. A tiny expanse unending,
Ended. And digging, the fertile give, orange-brown clay,
Through worm-aired muck to ungiving, granite-stop.
And it was not mine then, just earth. Silent.
Noise teeming. Life-teeming. Above, below, within.
Atlantic storm sound, galed. Bending, bent life
Answering, however silent, however noise-rich
The question that I, mine, miners, builders ask
As children, guardianed, 'don't touch', touch.
Fingers immediate touching, taste, foul-taste, sweet.
Shifting grains of land, building stone-paths, brick mines
And passing on. Built beauties present, fading,
Untouching. The bleak beauty. Remain. Weather on.
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