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Tuesday 16 August 2016

Lifeline

Lifeline

He knows the effort it costs him
Feels the ache of muscles
The back-breaking work
Naked and exhausted
Rock-cracking and sifting
Lifting loads in the heat, the filth and mud
To find the tiny grains
Small speckles of value
Sparkling precious pieces
That mean so much to him
Just enough to exist, to eat, to carry on

Hunting, scavenging, rat-like
In a diabolic hell-hole
Deep inside the Earth
A dark world of danger
Among the drills and dust
Crawling through flooded shafts
To reach a promising seam
Of grit that holds the glitter of gold
And the faintest gleam of hope

But he cannot trace it any further
Transported, transformed
Refined and purified into heavy ingots
Which sit, unused, in high-security rooms
Reserves of national treasure
To guarantee the currency
And maintain suitable short supply
To keep the prices high enough
Within the global market

Nor see it spun into delicate filaments
Its decorative strands
Worked by artistic hands
To adorn elegant, well-heeled figures
Among the wealthy and well-to-do
Who, in a languid moment
May reach out for their electronica
Slim-line models in brushed-leather cases
To access the latest features
And communicate across the world
By a finger’s touch
Perhaps even to the darkest heart of Africa


Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016

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