The linnets gather on the ling
And watch the knitting party pass.
Another morning thick with dust,
The men and women click and cough.
The ponies start their circling trudge.
A pipit rises then is lost.
The children gather at the pit:
One spits his blood into the sedge.
And from within the moaning starts,
A roar so deep the slagheap shifts.
The children by the ladder shake.
The knitting party help them down.
Their sacrifice will never still
The Minotaur’s half-human lust.