The poppet legs upon the hill stand out in silhouette.
Stark black against the evening sky.
Red where the sun has set.
The gin wheel’s fallen, broken.
Timber is rotten, dry.
The shaft is caving, crumbling,
With collar all awry.
Great heaps of useless mullock
Tell tales of mighty toil.
Its sweat and hope, despair and fear,
Mixed with the blackened spoil.
Tools useless, worn and rusted
Are scattered round about,
Like futile schemes and shattered dreams
Of lodes that petered out.
Only a heap of rubble
Left by those who came and went.
But those who know and feel, can see
A stately monument.
By Dick Turner ©