Coal

by Amy MacLennan

They know nothing

but the ache of the mines.

Air dense with dust,

thin of light, fogged

by men grubbing their days,

deep. Not one of them

spared a mark.

Indigo nails,

splintered bones,

a low cough ignored.

At six o'clock, sharp,

they send a boy ahead

to give word the shafts

are clear for the night.

And a woman

sits home and rocks

by the window, pictures

the stains of coal

on her husband's skin,

so unique she could tell

her man without ever seeing

his face.

(First published in Folio, Winter 2004)