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The Final Shift

Updated: 7 hours ago

By Charles Holme

Image: The Miner - a charcoal drawing /

Credit: Charles Holme


The Final Shift


The earth has moved and all my life has crumbled

I’m bent with pain and nightmares fill my days

The pit has been the only work I’ve known of,

Now its no more. I know no other way.


I’ve lost the count of all the shifts I’ve worked on,

The hot, dark secrets of the pit unbounden.

The friendships, jokes and banter at the pit head.

I found my place among the village men.


Yet still I wake up early in the morning

The kitchen lights of others who can’t sleep

I pass the hours of daylight in the allotment

And fill my days imagining the deep.


I vent my anger on the soil – it’s useless!

And weep in silence, now a soul outcaste

Each dreadful day is blocking out the future.

I sit alone where I can see the past.


I met a lass whose uncle worked the back shift

We settled down, a home, a time of joy

Along came Johnny born of love and laughter

An only son and one delightful boy


With holidays beside the northern shoreline

Sunny days of pools and tiny fishes

Finding black sea coal beside the water.

Ice cream, sandy toes and salty kisses.


At evening in the club, before too long we talk

About the 100 men who lost their lives that night.

and “Whose to blame”, “If only …” “Where’s the Union?”

“I still say….” All no good. For nowt can put it right.


The first explosion gently shook the floor boards

The second waking us in bone deep fear.

The siren screaming. Men rush to the pit head

To help. But helpless. Only standing near,


To wait. And wait. Three men were brought up quickly

All near to death. Not him. That night I prayed.

Then news of a fire, the roadways blocked with rubble,

The seams collapsed, no sound of life. My faith betrayed.


And as the dawn broke cold the saddest news was bitter.

The pit was flooding. Hope swift ebbed away

The Newsmen came. We speechless, faded to the club

To drink and talk with pitmen that dark day.


It took four weeks before the fire was over.

A few more bodies found, but not the brave,

Somewhere he lay deep among the rubble

The earth that moved changed pit into a grave.


Our Johnny won his scholarship to the grammar

He could do anything, they said, he had the gift.

If only…. There I go again, if only he’d stayed on

And studied, it would not be the final shift.

The final shift.


By Charles Holme


About The Final Shift


YouTube video: West Stanley Pit Disaster, Durham 1909 by Colin C


At a Drawing and Painting class I copied the face of a miner in his helmet using charcoal. It was one of my better drawings and I framed it and it hung in our shower room. I looked at it a lot and saw a sadness in the face. I wondered what might have caused this sadness and this poem was the result.


Family details: I was brought up in a mining district in the North East of England. Many students at my grammar school were from local mining villages. In my family I got the message I had to work to go to university like my brothers. Many of my fellow students had been brought up to leave school and work in the pit.


Charles Holme

January 21, 2021


N.B. The Final Shift is part of a collection of 180 poems intended for imminent publication. The poem was partly inspired by Charles' memories of the aftermath of the Aberfan mining disaster - the catastrophic collapse of a colliery spoil tip on a mountain slope above a village near Merthyr Tydfil, south Wales on 21 October 1966.



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