Yoom reckless, I tell him, as I tend to
his wounds – the cuts, the clouts,
limbs battered and bruised.
It ay worth it, I tell him, as he claims
that he’s fine – that he’s at his
happiest when down in the mine.
He makes promises to leave, but I know
that he’ll stay – he loves it down
there, with the soil and the clay.
So I kiss him farewell, but when
I’m alone – I pray to God that
today, he’ll just make it back home.
Poet for June