Toil.

With the morn.
A weary woman rises.
It is the time
Of the lighting of the fires.
To cook. To feed.
To comfort and warm.
Soon the children will rise.
And take it all for granted.
Hers is a short life.
Illness and hard toil
Will age her.

Beneath her feet,
Her man toils.
His hands hue the coal.
That pays his wages.
And feeds the fires.
That are being lit.
A thousand feet
Above his head.
The sun he rarely sees.
Rises.

He rose at five.
Descended the shaft at six.
Rode the tram
To the coal face.
Into the dust.
The clammy warmth.
The danger.
His world has shrunk.
To the narrow beam of light.
From the torch on his helmet.
All else is darkness.
The dust fills his lungs.
Around him the earth groans.
The gas gathers
The coal filled trams.
Rattle on steel rails.
For eight hours
This is his world.
Exhausted.
Coal blackened.
He will emerge blinking.
Into the light.

Waiting for him.
A dinner.
A clean house.
A wife as exhausted as him.
A hot bath.
That cleans the skin.
But not the lungs.