Black Work Poem by Gordon D Wilkinson

All for seven shillings a week
Deep into the black pits bowels sent
Herded in, crushed tight cheek to cheek
Riding this old creaky cage, of ghouls
Rocking side to side in descent
With ten other sweating souls
Ever deeper, much darker gloom
Only the pale amber candles incandescent
Shedding flickering shadows loom
Reeking the surrounding air smell
Filled with musk so sickly sweet
Slowly descending into hell
Cramped together it is no treat
Minutes roll by like hours
Suddenly jolted we hit the bottoms dusty showers
Swinging open the cage door to escape the stones
Passing men lined up, dirty black vagabonds they ignore
Wanting to make their ride into the sun, with blackened bones
All smeared with black streaks from their sweaty labour
Each grabbing either pick or shovel we shuffled
Finding our trolley each muffled
Sitting either side on planked seats
This our transport to hells face hearts faster beats
Trolls down from the light
Mange infected pony thrusting itself forwards a sorry sight
Taking up the slack jerked back to reality ride
Deeper into the wood propped tunnel we glide