Carol Heuchan

Where cicadas beat the rhythm of the Hunter’s heart and soul,
where the lucerne flats are luscious and the gentle winds cajole
with a swaying of the willows by each lilied water hole,
we were foaled.

Where the carol of the magpie is a lilting serenade,
with the white bespeckled butterflies a constant cavalcade,
where the canvas is a testament - it’s Nature’s accolade,
our home.

Who would guess beneath the surface was a destiny of Hell?
With a lure of wealth and power no amount would ever quell,
for above the earth so perfect, underneath it - who could tell -
black gold.

So we frolicked in our innocence and played the games of youth,
games to build our might and cunning when the time would come for truth.
It was wild and sometimes scary - blooming dangerous! But struth,
we didn’t care.

We had shoulders like a bullock; we had hocks turned in for strength;
what we lacked in height and beauty, we made up in girth and length.
When it came to dash and daring, we both had it to the ‘nth.’
Best mates.

Ben was just a little older, had a hand at least on me,
was adept at planning capers and excelled in blasphemy.
So of course he was the leader, claiming ‘aristocracy.’
Invincible.

We were broken in together, with the Wilko contract team.
Carefree days were left behind us, just a harshly shattered dream,
for our world was now the darkness of the Hunter’s Northern seam.
Coalmining.

Now the pits of Aberdare and Aberglassyn were our home,
toiling, living, even sleeping, rock and slime replacing loam,
day and night a grim monotony, a dismal monochrome,
another world.

Ben and I became notorious for every lurk and perk.
When a new bloke got in trouble, it would be our handiwork.
We’d go sneaking up a dead end, wearing nothing but a smirk
What fun!

There was not a knot or tether that could keep us trouble free.
Ben undid it in an instant with astute dexterity
and we’d leave our stalls and mangers for a crib-room feeding spree.
‘Founder bound.’

We’d go traipsing through the pitch black, (there were no lights on our hats)
but we’d always find the crib room - we had sensors just like bats.
They would hang their coats on nail hooks ‘cause the rats were big as cats.
Too right!

In one pocket was their crib tin (honey sandwiches, a must.)
In the other there’d be scraps for us. (They figured this was just.)
Ha! We’d eat their grease- proofed sangers and leave them the bits of crust!
Just deserts..

And as always is the Aussie way, the pranks were tit-for-tat.
If a bloke’d try a trick on us, he’d grin like Cheshire cat
thinking we were none the wiser but we’d pick it just like that!
No chance.

He’d have coupled up an extra skip, when only five was fit
But the extra ‘clicks’ meant planted feet and clamping on the bit.
We were members of the Union were the ponies of the pit!
On strike!

Hand in hand with camaraderie, companionship and sharing,
harsh conditions and the danger formed a special bond of caring,
each dependant on each other with a trust beyond comparing.
True blue.

We had heard about in ‘43, when Abidare caught fire.
If they didn’t seal the pit, the consequences would be dire
but their 91 pit ponies, still below, were in the pyre
and doomed.

Though the management insisted, miners argued to a man.
They would not allow the sealing, so the desperate risks began.
They were burned and they were choking, but no efforts greater than
that day.

Eighty-one pit ponies rescued, eighty-one to haul again,
eighty-one who owed their being to the courage of those men
and the miners’ tears were flowing for their mates, the other ten.
Farewell….

We would come up for the weekends to the Kearsley paddock where
we’d a brief respite of sunlight and rejuvenating air,
but as years went by our health and zest became the worse for wear,
toll of toil.

Machinery. It was coming. Contract mining days were numbered.
We were mostly used for snigging, heavy pit props ponies lumbered
and the coal went out on moving belts, the horses unencumbered.
Moving on.

But a haunting mem’ry lingers, of a ‘working’ roof one morning
when I felt the pressure building as I bolted, giving warning
and the dust had barely settled when reality was dawning,
Ben was gone.

S’pose I sort of threw the towel in. Barely worked and hardly ate,
felt the stroking hands of sympathy, long past my use-by-date,
heard the kind words of my comrades saying “Not much longer, mate.”
Not long.

When that Friday night shift ended, I was cavilled out for good
and I climbed the shaft to freedom as I knew one day I would.
So the bridle was unbuckled and in lush green grass I stood,
at last.

I could feel the gentle flicker of a butterfly on wing
then I had my fill of lucerne, quenched my thirst from crystal spring.
But without my friend beside me, life a bitter hollow thing.
Alone.

Ah, I knew at least for me, the final journey had begun
as I blinked and squinted tired eyes towards that long lost sun
and my payment for my service, for prosperity hard won?
blindness…