Old Gold Mine
Look down to see the old gold mine,
abandoned like a vineyard that ran out of wine,
trust to note more than weeds and dust,
rusted trucks on a broken line.
See in the stifling dark
where they dug with axe, drill and spade.
Think of the man in the white wooden office
who withheld the true wages they made.
You can almost see them,
sat on the slopes in the shade,
helmets on the ground,
drinking coffee from tin mugs.
Pictures remain but no sound.
Gold in the mountains,
silver in streams,
jewels in the markets,
things more rare were delved for in dreams.