The Black Vein

The Black Vein

Beneath the hills of Bolton town,

Where blackened seams run deep,

The miners toil from dawn to dusk,

Their lives the coal to keep.

A lantern swings in narrow dark,

The air is thick and low,

Each cough, a whisper of the dust,

That seeds where lungs won’t grow.

With pick in hand and sweat on brow,

They carve the earth apart,

Yet every swing, each strike of steel,

Beats heavy on the heart.

For down below, no sun can shine,

No meadow’s breath can bloom,

Just echoes of the cracking rock,

A graveyard draped in gloom.

The clatter stops—an eerie hush,

Then comes the gas’s sigh,

A spark, a flash, the roaring flame,

And men condemned to die.

The pit-head bell tolls out the names,

Cold hands grip hearts with fear,

As women wait in widow’s dread,

For voices they won’t hear.

Yet still they go, each morn anew,

Beneath the town’s proud dome,

For Bolton’s fires must be fed—

And coal must stoke the home.