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Below
Carn Brea
Hard rock breeds hard men
Who slip between the earth's cracks for a living
The dark chasm which closes round you
Tight like a fist, draws you down
Into the mine's gullet, the belly of the beast
Hewn out of granite, the ledger of tin
The ingot of tradition, a labyrinth of strong voices That
still chisel the dark, the rich seam
A stream that runs through each generation
A lode that anchors a man's life,
And leads him him by the hand
Down the slender ladder of the night
Deeper and deeper into the dark maze Honeycombed with shaft
and adit
The ancient sorcery of stope and rise
Winze, stull, level and gunnies
Beckoning him on relentlessly
Into uncharted waters
Like a tide that has just turned
The Wheal of Hope still tugging at your sleeve.
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Naming the Mine
Each name a focus, a count house,
A powerful lens through which
Whole communities lived and died
A potent force to be reckoned with.
Each name a rich mythology
Hope that fed a thousand children
Put bread upon the table.
Clothes upon the wife, latch upon the door.
Each name a rough passage
A voyage into deep pockets.
A deal struck with the earth
The rich lode smelted down.
Each name a hard grindstone
Pitted against men's wits
A ship's crew bound together,
Old before their time, the mast of tin.
Each name an inventory of untimely disasters
Flash floods and fires,
Explosions and rock falls
Sending up their own small flurry of gravestones.
Each name rolled off the tongue
Biting the bullet,
Another closure like a volcanic island
That sinks back beneath the waves.
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