The Phantom Tinner of Geevor
By Robert J Rowse
The heavy gates were sealed in ninety’s chill,
The winding drum stood silent on the hill.
Damp bitter air still clings to rusted stone,
Where phantom miners walk the dark alone.
Rough granite walls exhale a bitter breath,
That carries echoes from the depths beneath.
Calloused palms recall the weary weight,
That shaped the fortune and the miner’s fate.
A sudden chill runs through the dampened wool,
While lanterns flicker past an empty stool.
The iron pick rests heavy in the hand,
Though no one strikes against the stubborn land.
Old miners speak of spirits in the deep,
Who tap the walls before the tunnels sleep.
The knockers guard each narrow, hidden vein,
And pace the galleries through joy and pain.
A phantom tread falls soft on wooden plank,
Where dusty lockers stand in silent rank.
Coarse greasy cloth still brushes against skin,
As unseen footsteps draw the shadows in.
Fine gritty dust still clings to weathered wood,
Where ancient workers once had bravely stood.
The heavy hammer sounds a sudden knock,
That trembles through the darkened granite rock.
Old legends say he walks the lowest drift,
To brace the falling stones before they shift.
His weathered hands press hard against the wall,
And guard the weary workers from the fall.
A sudden draft runs sharp against the cheek,
While phantom whispers from the darkness speak.
An oiled brass lamp reflects a steady glow,
And lights the shadowed tunnels far below.
The history sleeps inside the dampened clay,
Where generations laboured night and day.
His cracked old boots scrape softly on the stone,
And wake the sound the mining dead have known.
New visitors still feel the heavy air,
And sense a phantom presence on the stair.
Sharp tin dust settles cold upon the hand,
As distant singing drifts across the land.
They say the knockers watch from tunnels low,
And guide the weary souls where waters flow.
The weathered hands still feel the old damp dust,
And keep the oath of generations’ trust.
So, when you walk the dark and dampened way,
Respect the phantom tinner’s silent sway.
The old myth breathes within the granite cold,
A timeless tale of courage still retold.
Robert J Rowse
I was Born in Redruth, grew up near Newquay but went to school in Launceston. For the past 20+ years I have taught English as a Second Language to students in Indonesia (A modern Cousin Jack).
