The thin ridge of houses along the top of the moor I always saw as a scar along a smooth body. That blackened body. It was so obvious what they had done. The exploitation. The pit head gone, perhaps, and them tiny men back and buried in them tiny miners cottages. Sometimes I felt sadly proud, a happy sorrow.
The conditions of brutality change. No one likes scars and scabs. They drill for shale now. A deeper trauma. Cleaner, they say, but I couldn’t be sure. When summat’s not here it’s likely elsewhere. We await the tremors, the aftershocks, unawares.