Winner of the Yorkshire Poetry Prize

Glen Hume Mine 1948

by Pauline Stephenson

I can remember the path to the mine;
Scuffed soil littered with the sparkle of mica.
Watching out for Matabele soldier ants that
swarmed up, jaws clamped in flesh
even as their bodies tore beneath small frantic fingers.

I can remember the river on the way,
easily crossed most of the dry year
on large flat granite stones.
Stopping to search for yellow diamonds.
Tiny sharp bursts of light crusted on skin,
dusted carefully into an empty match box.

I can remember the solitary thorn tree,
a hanging larder for the butcher bird.
Plucking and eating the long shards of
sweet resin gum that oozed out white
from deep cracks in the split bark,
to set crystalline hard and dark.

I can remember the mine dumps.
Scrambling up the crumbling soil,
dug out and pounded by stamp mills,
droplets of gold shaken free.
Sliding down again, clothes and hair clouded by rising dust.

I can barely remember that child,
who glazed in sun in the old photograph,
peeps out beneath the shade of a big cloth hat.
One arm wrapped around a dog,
the other holding tight to a veranda post
as if afraid of falling.