Carved out of the darkness and far below
In the very last working, a stable
Where the pressure transforms into trees
Pit-props, rosettes into sunflowers,
Into grazing nosebags and the droppings
That smoulder among lumps of coal.
Like the fuzzy star her forelock covers,
A yarn about a townload somewhere
Two fields and no more, in one of them
The convergence of three counties, and her
Standing up to the gaskins in foxgloves,
Agrimony, swaying meadowsweet.
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