September 1936 in Fernhill Colliery, despair hung in the air. Angry eyes reflected in the helmet lights as rats scurried into the darkness. They had arrived in the horses' feed and seemed well-suited to life underground. Horses shuffled restlessly, facing their onerous task, And reminiscing of their annual break in the bright sunshine, Just a short freedom, from life's drudgery, in delicious fresh air. No-one spoke. And the dripping water echoed throughout the long, narrow tunnels. Although everyone knew,an attack on the few was an affront to all, Silence remained, as an invisible wall threatening speech. It had been a long, hard struggle as Capital would shit on Labour, And much had been gained by acting as one. Now a few were threatened again - only twelve denied the minimum wage, Only a few - but past rights had been won by the shedding of blood and tears by all. 'Tommy-My-Boy' stroked the large, black V-shaped facial scar, The black bite of a roof collapse. He spoke in quiet Welsh tones as if gentle waves lapped the underground passages, 'When man does not stand up for principles, rights or beliefs, he's no longer a man, And sometimes he has to die for them'. All nodded. None abstained. On the pit bottom they would stay and nothing would move either way. All sixty-four agreed, men would always have to fight in order to be free. Cyril Rees started singing his favourite Welsh hymn, Dick Young and William Evans followed the lead, And soon sixty-four voices in harmony lit the darkness, As it vibrated along the coalface. Men whose hardened muscles were honed in the earth's filthy bowels, Have voices of angels that caress the soul. But money and wealth are vicious foes, With no holds barred in a labour war. And 'they' controlled the air flow. First, unbearable heat - air so foul to break one's heart. Then air so cold - gnawing fingers of hate, freezing sweat and weakening resolve. But time became blurred. Here there is no day or night and tricks would not work. They remained united and would not break. After 292 hours in one long, so endless night, Without fresh air or the sun's delight, The point had been made. So, for all concerned, a returns to the surface. Honour was saved. Black, haggard men emerge blinded by the unaccustomed light, Unshaven and lousy as a result of the fight. They had given their all to loosen the chains but knew they would be fighting again and again. It was only a skirmish in the battle 'gainst wealth, But in this short time they had sacrificed their health. Now it's long past and memories fade. Will we remember the sacrifice made? (1972) (sadly, TE Thomas, like many of those in this poem, died of 'black lung disease' in 1974) (Photo depicts a typical miner reaching the surface - they were not allowed to smoke underground)
