Page 23 - Contrast1991Spring

In loving memory of Jeanne Alpaugh (English, Class of 1990)

Old Mine on the Cornish Coast

There's a cold wind blowing from the sea.
Mist and spray drift into the mine-
Chilling, as miners leave their veins of tin
And trudge home to where fires wait.
Today death called in a siren's voice
To tell the villagers of a cave-in.

Later, they'll gather at the inn
To drink silently, not wanting to see
The empty spaces, or hear the voice
Of memories in their minds,
Saying, your turn will come, if you wait,
To be buried, there in the tin.

But the British Empire needs tin
As much as the miners need their inn.
So now the miners wait,
In the village by the mine by the sea,
Until another day comes. Then the mine
Will open with the siren's voice.

It's a cold, cruel voice
That calls the miners from home to tin,
And a dreary cycle that leads from the mine
To the warm, cheery inn
And back again, there by the sea.
It's a dull and numbing wait

For the crushing, mangling weight
Of a cave-in. But miners never voice
Their complaints, for they can see
That the Empire needs its tin.
They work, live, and die in
The ancient, vital mine.

The families of the miners don't mind- -Thomas Harbold
Nor let on if they do-the wait
In the village, huddles around mine and inn.
But they fear the sudden, wailing voice
Of the siren, announcing another fall of the tin
As a cold wind blows from the sea.

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