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Wrecked mess of razor edged mountain guts

spilled by thousands of calloused hands

in the chiming din of metal on slate destined

for salubrious houses in distant

towns – out of the grasp of the wind knifing

under dark flannel coats wrapping

the figures who flap and dangle

in the grey, black and purple sky-topped void

loosely  roped round the middle,

some of them little – a tough living

and short to trudge in the icy dawn

from the town brooding below the mountain drawn

and quartered by those set to the dirty work

of chipping, breaking and heaving out Elidir’s core.

Now shadows crawl down the shining walls;

late afternoon silence in the cavernous scar.

The works’ hospital, a museum, squats in the woods

far below; the old morgue is silent on the lake shore.

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