Miners

after Henry Moore's drawings

They prop the pits as they go, they dig,

They load the little cars,

One on his knees, rooting like any pig;

Another leaning far

Over, looming big

Above his lamp's faint star.

The vein, it has no sudden ending:

Up go the broken tons.

The hammer and the rock, contending,

Rattle their bones.

They labor, bending,

In the dusty runs.

So dark in all, the little bird

They carry against the gas

Sits in his cage without a word,

Deluded by that blackness

Into sleep, then stirred

To fresh distress.

Picks shining like the nails of moles

Beneath the helmet lamps,

They honeycomb the dark for coal,

Hacking for their damp

Bituminous souls'

And bodies' cramp

Inches of ease. Swift at the face, white sparks

Their pick-points strike yield light,

But they go mostly within a stark

Blackness, tunneling right

Through the solid dark

Into a darker night.