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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

A poem from Third Prize Winner, Christopher Meehan

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Reopening the Mines

The town feels like Friday,
He drifts through the farmer’s market,
Face paler than a bleached moon,
A dancing waif, side-stepping the baby
Hugging mothers and fathers buying organic
In their brightly coloured knits.

This in a week of protracted silence,
Of lights going out on the second knock,
Of a shadow fitting a loose description
Seen snorkelling in a sea of roses
On the square, after the scotch
Had met the night and so completely.

Two years since the cave-in,
Since hope crumbled leaving nothing
To buttress the light against the creeping
Darkness of November, and yet still they wait
For him daily, throwing their words over the side
Until the tunnels and collapsed chambers

Are coated in brightly hued clichés
Around time healing and things picking up.
To be trapped down there where it hurts,
Where once he dug out the good stuff from
The Pyrite of the past and then hear them talking
Of reopening the mines, when all he

Longs for is time, an air pocket to inhabit
Between the inhalation and the piercing screams.

 

 

 

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