the miner broods hunchbacked
against the bitter sheddings of rain
that sweep across the moonscape
of rough-piled rock tailings

he walks out onto the rickety timber platform
that hangs and swings tick-tock
in grotesque inverted mimicry
above the open maw

the pedestal lurches back and forth
he can nearly touch the jagged walls
punctuated by gulping tuba mouths
big enough to swallow a man

down, down, down he goes
until, deep as a kite flies high,
he tugs on the cord and
the podium jerks to a stop

swinging and swaying
he kicks the gangplank
across the yawning gap
to the other world

inside the tunnel he crouches down
deaf as a chock, pick axe striking at blank rock
until sparks of sulphurous alchemy fly
into air ringing with dropped notes

sawing and propping like a madman
to hold, hold, hold against the discord
with predatory growl and fierce joy
amidst hellish syncopation he strikes true

thunderous chords echo about the cavern walls
answered by the strident trumpeting of an epoch of elephants
as they pound the vast drumming ground, surrounded by horses
galloping their orbits of perfect synchronicity

spittle flying from their whinnying mouths
hemmed in by the shuddering waves of contrapuntal dissonance
with charcoal eyes pining for the long-lost meadows above
…they keep the beat

earthquakes shake shrill shrieks of
complaint from the tearing rocks
folding about them like putty
…and still they keep the beat

drawn taut as a wire close to madness
where no-one has been before
air shivering, tightrope walking
glass shards of sound clashing

threatening to bring
the whole great misshapen
stupendous creation
crashing to the floor

the deaf miner, a Moorish
magician, marches gaily
across the ice-cold
subterranean streams

a mischievous moth
darting amongst ethereal
cloistered chandeliers
of unheard sound

an underworld goat
leaping the rough hewn steps
higher and higher to where
dangerous gases and golden orbs hang

here he catches brief glimpses of Elysium
green meadows below puffy white clouds
and black swans with graceful necks
reflected in shimmering ponds

it is dusk in the world above before the stooped shadow
of a blackened man stumbles past the abacuses
of tadpoles and bubbles
hiding in dark puddles

to rest before the next dawn
to be drawn back to the seam
after all, his claim on it
is only temporary

Selected for inclusion in the 2014 Newcastle Poetry Prize Anthology