Robin Ford
At The Drift Mine
Take the track past spoil heaps,
trees with broken branches,
beside the cold white stream,
reach the rock face veiled with ferns
round the dark jaws of the mine,
pick over broken rails, abandoned skips
earth’s cool breath on face
duck under splintered props,
there may be seams of coal or gold,
even in earth’s arteries your early blood
restored and fresh,
joining the common flows.
These enconters might mean death
but maybe discovery, transfiguartion.
Page(s) 31
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