The Mile of Gold
Neil Harding McAlister
My wife and I came to this northern town
As Displaced Persons after World War Two.
Our country had been wrecked, our dreams shot down.
We turned our backs on everything we knew.
So beautiful was Anna! I, her man,
Was tall and strong, and proud that she loved me.
This new land would fulfill young lovers’ plans
For us and for our children yet to be.
In rocks of Kirkland Lake we drilled deep roots.
I got a good job working in a mine
Where dank and gloomy labyrinths we’d loot
To prize out all the gold that we could find.
And fate we cheated in a hundred ways
As rock bursts, floods and cave-ins we survived.
To see a sunset after sunless days
Had taught us what it meant to be alive.
Cold evenings at the hockey rink we’d spend
In bloody combat underneath the stars;
But we were always buddies once again
When, laughing, we would head back to the bars.
The main street shops had all the latest styles,
And every kind of luxury they sold.
On weekends folks would drive a hundred miles
To do their shopping on the Mile of Gold.
One time I damned near beat a man to death
Who looked upon my wife with lustful eyes.
A man must fight for what he loves the best,
And who would steal it from him, he’ll despise.
Then cancer took my Anna in her prime.
No other woman ever filled her place.
I carried on alone. From time to time,
I still imagine I can see her face.
When he had finished school, our son left home
To look for work in offices down south.
He found a better life than I have known --
A cushy job, a boat, a fancy house.
So one by one, the children left this place
To seek their fortunes where they could be found;
As years went by, there scarce remained a trace
Of fortunes that once lay beneath the ground.
The mines that gave us work when I was young
Played out and stood abandoned many years.
The riches that so dearly we had won
Had dwindled, and the jobs had disappeared.
Now dozens of our businesses have shut.
So many empty buildings can’t be sold,
When every second store front’s boarded up
Like broken teeth along the Mile of Gold.
A mining town can’t win, the big-shots say:
It’s boom and bust, not real prosperity.
Diversity will bring us better days --
A miracle I shall not live to see.
Cold water trickles off the granite knolls
Where ice is melting. Winter’s fading fast.
But cigarettes and rock dust took their toll:
The doctors fear this Spring may be my last.
I’ll die as I have lived in this small town.
I look ahead untroubled much by doubt.
A hard rock miner can’t be beaten down --
It’s Death alone who’ll finally knock me out.
And when he comes, I’ll shake the Reaper’s hand
With few regrets, now that I have grown old,
Content that as a youth I made my stand
In this tough town, when streets were paved with gold.
© Neil Harding McAlister, April 2004,
Kirkland Lake, Ontario, Canada
