PIT LANE
At the bottom of Pit lane
Stands the statue that isn’t there,
Glorious in its grace and dignity.
A catch of men coming off shift,
Sunlight piercing their helmets,
Pickaxes and tired faces.
All sculpted from black coal,
Bits of brass and coal dust.
In Spring, buttercups shine their steel toe-caps.
In Winter, snow warms their cold shoulders.
In any time, they forge their own strong
and living presence.
©2020 Gwen Grant.
Poems by Gwen Grant 