Pitstrike 1984
by Lila Broadhurst
The headstocks stand black and gaunt against the sky, The great spoked wheels are motionless; The grimy yard in eerie silence lies, And over all, a deathly kind of hush. Where now the clatter of boots upon these places? Where now the chatter, laughs and hoots from blackened faces? Like corpses stretched in lengthy line, Trucks cast their hollow eyes; Iron skeletons in time Towards the chilly skies. The ghostly buildings idly lie In tense, uneasy sleep - With but one open yellow eye A vigilance to keep. Stay, sleepy giant, I'll not intrude Upon your ghostly interlude.