Open Cast Yard

Open Cast Yard prose poem

Black rain filtered down the cobble stone, catching the moon, almost making a white streak of what looked like paint, as it found the large grated drains

As morning came, transformations of colours form, as oil slick from the Lorries, brightly covered concrete bays and the smell of sweet coal raising steam from the heat of the sun and the guard man at the gate grins.. pains

The architecture of the tall green bins made of steel house, the coal in structure always there on the landscape, proud, useful but I heard a boy got stuck in one and was crushed by the weight when coal picking and I hear his screams every time I hear the screeching of the lines on the trains

See every place or small town has a short cut and the coal yard was ours and whether we used it or not I will always remember the birds singing and the sun rising with the rain pouring and the boy screaming but now it’s not there any more and no one can pass through apart from thoughts in me.. remains

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Peter Kiggin

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I am a poet through and through and anyone that tells you different you must deny it and slap them across the face very roughly indeed. I love the normal things in life and turning them into mysterious meaningful emotionally attached fascinating object or subjects.
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Brilliant but brought back many a sad memory of those dark holes. The big coal heap in Wales
which downpoured onto a childrens school came to mind.
The land sculputre of Northumberlandi came to mind too beautiful landscape to hide the uglyiness of opencast mining. Yes your poem opened the floodgates of memories.


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