Pit Pony

The working lad retired from service,
He peers at the rain with fading sight
Blinkered for so long by his industry,
No longer able to see fine mist falling.

He survived the tumbling of the old shaft,
The deaths of human miners all around.
Shedding their blood for the veins of coal,
Dark-darting arteries to be consumed in fire.

Now death comes slowly through the drizzle,
The white-coated MRCVS with his needle.
Squelching in the field, his face lined
With sadness, bringing the end of days.