Larkman   All the fledgling lark knows is the dark wooden box nailed shut but for two flaps. Open they let in the light. All the larkman knows is a metal cage lowering into the pit. Coal dust trapped in his throat and the shaft smothering warm. Sundays at dawn, he carries the box up Skircoat Moor and slides back the flaps.   The lark opens its throat and the unboxed song soars on and on … In chapel that night, the larkman snug in his wooden pew sings, ‘Safe evermore under God’s wings.’ The lark’s song boxed, folded, tight.…