THE  CHARTERHOUSE MINES.

Blood washed and slate, the sky presided

over one hour’s walk to mark the mines.

the mist formed veils in fading light

as shadows slid from shafts

and a banshee of an owl claimed the night.

long headed shepherds, moor and marsh dreamers,

prehistoric miners of Iberian descent

all colonise the hills and form

a Charterhouse of painted caves and white skulls

then the mist moves as a turning worm.

hard and straight the lines of Rome converge

with convicts for the mining and theatres for the troops

smells of alchemy, arrogance and blood

seep through villas whose owners rattle dice cups

on mosaics where the wolf packs stood.

the bleakest times of iron and mud soaked wars

let a merchant church command the shafts.

between the rage of Forresters, the Royal sword

and the silver greed of Bishops,

the land wept lead without a word.

near Cheddar streams as red as Waterloo soldiers

boys curled up and faded with seven years of life.

in the swamp smell tunnels, through gruffy ground,

lamps in a thousand tents vanished in the wind

and left the owl, in the mist, the only sound.

all quiet now on the desolate hill. no noise

and silent graves, washed away with slurry

but their spirits pray in the heather bed,

near the reeds where snipe prepare for sleep

and the grassland as the rabbits lick the lead.