Men conceived me as slave, built me out of steel
and brick, but I’ve outgrown them – now I control.
They come to me and grovel – that’s the deal.
Their reward? – to suck dust for a scratch of coal.
I am Reformer: I ink the Cynon black
as Acheron and sludge Ceiber’s green meadows.
Benefactor too: I make tired wives widows.
I grant men a gasp of rest, then haul them back:
at my compelling blasts, my wolfhound hoots,
drum wheels roll, teeth mesh and ropes vibrate
and with a clattering of hobnail boots
the blackened companies I regurgitate.
More men, pale as moths, I drop into the deep.
Grimed and beat, I wind them up – some I keep.
Penrhiwceiber Colliery fell silent in 1985 after
operating for more than a hundred years –
these fourteen lines might have been the
boast hooted out by the pit in its heyday.