That’s a brilliant poem Fruitcake, and although I myself never went down a mine (I expect my Dad didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps) it reminded me of several generations of Foxy’s.
You mentioned ‘Half a mile deep’ and I recall my grandad telling me that Hatfield Main was one of the deepest pits in the country at ‘half a mile deep’…Could Hatfield Main have been the one you visited?
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I went down Rossington Main when I was about seventeen or eighteen. We could actually see it and about four other pitheads from my parent’s bedroom window.
I don’t know if it was a real escape tunnel or not, but there was a tunnel junction sign posted with, Markham Main and a distance of six or seven miles. Markham being the one over your way at Armthorpe, near Danum Grammer hooligan manufactory where I spent seven years as an inmate.
My parents talked me out of accepting an offer of a university place to do a 4-year BSc course with the NCB that included six months of every year dahn’t-pit.
I am glad I took their advice.
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Yes I know Markham Main pit at Armthorpe well Fruitcake, I sometimes get them mixed up with Markham colliery at Haworth. I am not so familiar with Danum Grammer school though as I went to Stainforth Secondary modern for all the no hopers…I always though BSc was the acronym of ‘British Sugar Corporation’…
You done well my friend…
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Heh true blue
Is it mum and dad, is it a cockatoo Is it standin’ by your mate when he’s in a fight Or just vegemite True blue, I’m a-asking you Hey true blue, can you bear the load Will you tie it up with wire Just to keep the show on the road Hey true blue Hey true blue, now be fair dinkum Is your heart still there If they sell us out like sponge cake Do you really care Hey true blue
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I can’t believe this old thread is still going. xxx
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Well, old people keep posting on it. 
I posted quite a few poems I wrote during lockdown, but I had completely forgotten about this thread, so they are spread over lots of different threads.
Quite so, unfortunate in some ways.
could someone bring them al together again like a poet laureat??
wots the point the applause clapometer is busted?
One should never seek applause for ones poetry, more sympathy.
we’ve heaped loads on you spits - sympathy that is - and its still not working? with all that metal around ya maybe you’ve turned metal skinned too? - getoff!
Real Poets are rarely part of a collective
Inspiration comes from disassociated selective
well when ya’ve graduated from limerick school ya can join?
What colour is the wind?
White cotton clouds like inflatable sheep,
Floating by on a gentle breeze,
Yellow tree pollen blown all around,
A red spotted hanky to catch a sneeze.
Mini tornados of fine tilled earth,
Dust devils stirred by an invisible hand,
Waves of brown dirt from a stum-jump plough,
As an Ozzy farmer works her land.
Rainbow colours from the prow of a boat,
Spindrift sparkling in the bright summer sun,
Spray blown over the passengers aboard,
Holiday makers catching mackerel for fun.
Black silhouettes of white screeching seagulls,
Soaring on updrafts from the green hills below,
Picked out in contrast against the sky behind,
A watery sun making a dull yellow glow.
Moonlight reflecting from quicksilver ripples,
As light airs kiss a small village pond,
Trees turn grey in the darkening gloom,
Green lanterns sway outside the pub beyond.
Creaking sounds from a black smocked windmill,
White painted sails turned by the air,
Zephyrs flick the ears of a golden wheatfield,
Cornstalks waving in the bright summer glare.
Heavy gales batter the Atlantic shoreline,
White horses prance on a windswept wave,
Squalls striking red sandstone cliffs,
Howling through a blowhole cave.
A red dragon kite breathes bright orange fire,
Toy cut-out gliders, cardboard finned,
Soaring and swooping above the park,
These are all the colours of the wind.
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