We quietly sat there chatting of the changes of this land, my friend the weathered miner, with his blue scarred hand. We spoke of strikes and closures, of his lungs that soon would cease.
Then on to other topics, to the changes in our world, Of his new found wife, of his struggling boy and girl. Time slowed and raindrops slid down the window panes, we drank a toast to those who died, to brave miners of the past. Conversation muted as our footsteps rang through the old grey streets,
Our lives are very different since I left my fathers land and I’m saddened that we seldom meet, the man with the black miners hand.