An Industrial scar on the south face of town,
at the bottom of cliffs dark muddy brown.
Once golden sands now slate grey,
the polluter’s price we've had to pay.
A most convenient place to tip shale,
by conveyor or down the rail.
Men would glean coal from the beach,
nanny goats path they risked to reach.
None could have foreseen the fall of all three,
Coal reserves reaching far out to sea.
Political decision’s in cloaked disguise,
bringing about Seaham's mining demise.
Erected symbols of our past,
none as poignant than the Blast.