The Pike River Mine. Poem by Ann Beard

Sensual clouds form a seal around roof tops
like mile after mile of undisturbed snow.
The wail of the bagpipes for twenty nine men
Echo, confusion amid untold woe.

Hearts are all aching, weeping, and breaking,
waiting to hear, what none want to know.
But the elements don’t have to justify why,
and temperatures rise in the tunnels below.

The Pike River Mine is a labyrinth of flame,
igniting the coal formed a long time ago.
Underground lips purse with inhuman rage
Hence twenty nine tables arranged, just so.

Twenty Nine men cannot dance any more,
cannot laugh, cannot cry, watch a TV show.
but now they are safe, they are able and free,
to enter our dreams when the lights are low..


Roan copyright © Dec.2010