The fires are burning brightly in the little stone cottages of this dying village.
After their last day at work, the men walk the cobble stones for the last time.
With news to share with their families, some pause at the local inn to contemplate.

The rain falls and the children huddle around the bright burning coal fire hacked from the face by their father.
Waiting for his smile to round the door and supper to be served.

The ****** blows for the last time, as a miners sit sipping their ale thinking of the men and boys left to haunt the empty tram ways and coal faces.
Do they feel lucky, not tonight, just betrayed and alone?

Time is called