Cobbs Engine House

It was an old brick chimney stack
rising out of the Summer grass.
I stood before it, hurt my neck trying to see the top.
We’d brought a torch, I’d found an opening:
a black, cool hole to scramble into.
On hands and knees, in dusty gravel 
I thought of spiders.
You were behind 
eyeing up claustrophobic walls.
Behind another figure
was climbing in.
He crawled past us both, lithe and deft,
a short man with a grimy face.
His heavy boots upset the gravel.
We backed against dank walls,
more and more were coming. 
A dim light yellowed ones face, 
a candle lantern swinging in the grip of his teeth.
You clutched my hand, on fidgety ground
pump pump pumping judders filled my legs.
Steam made my cheeks red.
I clambered after those heavy boots
they paused, disappeared upwards.
Following them with my torch I saw 
workers climbing the inside walls 
of the stack like ants.