Among stooped getters, grimy, knacker-bare,
head down thrusting a 3 cwt corf
turned your crown bald, your golden hair
chafed fluffy first and then scuffed off,
chick's back, then eggshell, that sunless white.
You strike sparks and plenty but can't see.
You've been underneath too long to stand the light.
You're lost in this sonnet for the bourgeoisie.
Patience Kershaw, bald hurryer, fourteen,
this wordshift and inwit's a load of crap
for dumping on a slagheap, I mean
th'art nobbut summat as wants raking up.
At this point, the narrator confirms that the worker – referred to by her name, Patience Kershaw – is still a child, doing hard manual work. The gross exploitation needs no explanation. 
 The female miner is unexpected; Harrison’s poetry rarely has women as its subject.
Working