We’re still here as wind whips white powder
across aborted roads till our eyes sting.
It sticks in the throat like surrender
from the slumped union man, red tie flapping
in the coordinated attack from the dust
and the gale-force stink of chicken shit someone dumped
last night to keep the numbers down. They already cut
the cables on number 1, said the shaft was unsafe, couldn’t
leave it, oh Lordy, no, Health & Safety, gone
now but it was safe enough until the last three weeks
to send working men down to keep the lights on.
Now the brass band plays Abide with me
as the handmade banner fights the wind.
This is where we’re from. This is who we are.
We’re still here after Buyout: Closure,
Buyout: Closure, times two; last one gifted
to a rich man’s son. What’s wrong with an old Micra,
like that stolen one that just drifted
over the rubble on the roundabout?
Every time we kept the union alive.
80% ballots left no room for doubt,
just like in the war when they went on strike
for the right to have soap. They hated Hitler
and defended their country underground,
but they didn’t care much for Churchill either.
Record productions followed by shutdowns,
markets rigged by free market excuses.
This is where we’re from. This is who we are.
We’re still here, though they’re determined to wipe us out,
not just because it’s a pit, not because it’s coal,
not just because it’s where our past got its power,
but because we represent a vision, a whole
different world. No wonder we’re bitter with chasers
of ashes in Poundland, bought off with knock-off bags.
It’s a bit late to say, Don’t be political
in top-down class warfare where that black stuff is taxed
to death so they can sob lies at her funeral.
As the band plays Jerusalem we will not cease
from mental fight, nor bow to privileged devils
who sell us endless War and scare us with Peace,
and jeer at hope after all we’ve gained through struggles.
This is where we’re from. This is who we are.
And we’re still here.
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