What was it he saw in that long split
second when the solid rock opened to show
its workings and he went feet first
into the grassed-over, half-forgotten shaft
feeling himself suddenly very small
and divided, one eye as it was, level
with the choughs, taking in the bracken’s
rusty cut and thrust, the dazzling elisions
of sea and sky and whistling out of tune
the way he’d done since time immemorial,
the other up against the granite – the mica,
the seams and grain of it, and the scars?
Was it the truth of the matter, an abstract
of human hands excavating the surface,
centuries of human labour extracting ore,
living through and under the earth, or one
of the stories we tell ourselves about our
selves, one of the parables we pass on
in that long split second under the sky’s
blue seal, provisional, before a rucksack
breaks – or fails to break – the fall?