Coal Dust and Courage

I come from a valley carved deep in the land,

Where the hills wore soot like a working man’s brand.

Kirkconnel, proud cradle of miners and kin,

Where stories were etched in the black seams within.

My father, just fifteen, took his place at the face,

A lad with a lamp and a quiet kind of grace.

He followed the footsteps of grandfathers bold,

Who laboured in silence through darkness and cold.

The clatter of boots on the pithead stone,

The hum of the cage, the ache in the bone—

These rhythms of toil shaped the beat of my heart,

Taught me that strength is a quiet kind of art.

No silver nor silk lined the paths that we knew,

But dignity bloomed in the coal dust we drew.

I carry their courage, their grit in my spine,

A woman made fierce by the bloodline of mine.

Though I walk softer paths than the tunnels they braved,

Their spirit still guides me, unbroken, unswayed.

I speak with their fire, I stand with their pride—

The miners of Kirkconnel walk by my side.