Pit Ponies

Six horses totter in a field,
unaware of where they are
but nicely surprised to be alive.
Half-blind, wobbly on their pins,
they lunge and sniff towards
sparse tufts of grass; stiff jaws
creak like rusty portcullises.
Wind spits drizzle on sore hides.
Can they recall their dark past?
They dragged fat wagons of coal
through choking gloom for life;
or nearly. The field is paradise.
Hooves tread mud like happiness.

Rain down the lane is just abating.
Cheap shoes seep in rutted puddles.
Barefoot kids scamper through twilight.
The Institute has a light on upstairs,
the Union are discussing silicosis.
A Macintosh-ed mother and child
splash along in loose galoshes.
The child asks about the horses;
she can never put down a book
about saddle-sore jodhpur gals.
Mum sighs; mine owners wear out
horses like soleless wartime boots.
Miners buy them back to stagger,
frail and free, in muddy solidarity.