Working in the mines: A Poem

At Australian Mining we encourage all of our readers to be part of the community and show all aspects of the mining industry. One reader, Tobin Cupples, has written a piece on a day in the life of a miner.

Working in the Mines:

All my days are set in stone. Oh there is light at the end of the tunnel but will these days rob me of something more than just existing? My head is down and my feet dragged back to my one-man square and television with the content boring as the forever-red dirt that spans my surroundings. I think every day that if I weren’t here in this labour activity I would find the land a magical dreamtime aboriginal story. But I have built a negative mind set on the mundane shift of time I have been set.

Flying home is the lonely solider arriving home with only his forever-ageing mother there to greet him. No young youthful loving arms of a woman. Just foreign temporary legs wrapped around for only a moment of satisfaction. Followed by days of hollow. 

I once knew a girl who cared to pick me up from the airports pick up, but she found distance in the absent physical touch too much to bear and found love with a man closer to home. I could only suck it up and sink lower in self-esteem and overall fading in my feelings of ever reaching.

Reaching for anything higher than the plane that I take back to my river of red dirt left behind by the Rainbow Serpents terror over the land that left all the bad people dead and their blood flooded the whole plains and dried up the land with life hard to live throughout. I walk my feet over this land with work boots on.

I toil away at my day. With bearded grins and words foul digging around me. The characters oh the characters, I listen to all there lies and truth of life. Genuine, mostly men getting lost in thought and doing the best they can.

Walking back from a day’s work the thirst of sweet ale consumes most if not all the men on site. Time lapse the figure of the man and you will see a gradual ageing expanding of the belly region. The grub is great and no clean up leaves you thinking these mines are one big mother of the third world feeding its children to make the labour come out of the ground. No time to play as the world needs your minerals.

Every night before I forget to turn off the TV that leaves a grown up night light on for me to experience more restlessness than what I need. I think of her for a time. Then I think of I. And a future time on a beach back home with a womanly figure chasing her down the sand, diving into the sea and holding her slippery in my arms and kissing her salt watered lips. It’s a romantic thought for a man’s man working in the mines. But that is my dreamtime I keep to myself.

Tobin Cupples.

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