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Poetry
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| The Dardanelles | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||||
| 04 December 2006 | ||||||||||
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Both of my grandfather worked in the Polkemmet coal mine - nicknamed "The Dardanelles" after the flawed Galipolli campaign underway as it was sunk in 1915 They dubbed this hole "The Dardanelles" no irony intended. Sunk like the allies' flawed campaign, deep in mud and dark, and death. No ANZACS here, just hardy Scots, piss-knuckled men, who scrape and tear at shiny black. The hard won stuff was coking coal, for furnaces, to build the ships, to sail the men, to Gallipoli. They dug the pit, they piled the slag, until a pyramid was raised, upon the ridge. My grandfather, who worked the seam, proudly said; "the first thing seen, from out at sea was this, Polkemmet bing". When winding gear had long since seized, the final shift, had long since loused, this slag heap smouldered on. The sulphur stench of satan's lair, cindery fallout on the town, leaving hair and laundry black, Polkemmet has the last laugh, the "Dardanelles", still not subdued. Oli 04/12/06
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