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Clinging to the Valley

screes of shale
remain where
slag-heaps rose

the machinery
and the railway line
are gone

banks of bleak homes
some boarded up
seem to slope nowhere

in the Station Cafe
they laugh and gossip
tell tales of holidays
and how nice it is
to get back

rain streams
relentlessly
on rows of pigeon lofts

over the mountain
where the last
driftmine
still works
life takes wing

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