the Dust, the Dust

I remember the men,
their faces blackened with filthy coal
layers of carbon dust on skin,
slowly lining their lungs thick.
I think of them in the twilight,
two miles underground
hewing with axe and pick,
shirtless bodies glistening with sweat like morning dew
I see them coming home,
tired of the black
eyes like pissholes in the snow
unaccustomed to the light
and then,
and then their golden voices sing in Male Voice Choirs
in the softest way,
that only they,
the men of the Dust know how
and only they know how,
oh how the Dust will end their days
coughing, spluttering, heaving chest,
gasping for one last struggling final breath
and then,
and then the silence of their corroded lungs
followed by the womens' quiet tears
for another tonne of that damned black coal
one more husband, son and father is laid to rest.