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.