Slag

         MINERS TOWN.

"Carry slack" she says

to the spires of smoke

stealing away from Miners Town

where every child is born

to carry a bucket.

In the evening the little men

will gather below the street

where the pit-head eyebrows meet

so when their fathers come,

they'll parade nearby;

smaller jackets just.

A jet shape of geese

passes through the smoke columns;

for a moment she travels too

but then they leave her,

disappearing each year

over the same roof-top.

"Carry slack," she repeats

into the dog's ear of a kitchen door,                 

and in the shortened evening

she too unfurls a stalk of smoke

that'll mark her place

in the forest above Miners Town.