The speaker remembers an older man, apparently a mentor or elder, who assumed he was a Protestant when he filled in a job form. The speaker corrected him in plain Scots speech. Later, at the man's funeral, a Catholic neighbour reveals that he signed Christmas cards "comrade," so his loyalties were not what they seemed. The poem says as much: "Things aren't always as they appear."
The man also once explained that mines had escape routes linking the pits in case of disaster. Now the speaker pictures similar disused passages beneath fields and streets, connecting people who seem divided. The final image is the most hopeful: buried lifelines in clenched fists opening into palms. The mood is quiet, reflective and tender. The speaker feels grateful and a little wistful, realising that solidarity can lie hidden under suspicion and labels, waiting to be reopened by a simple, open-handed gesture.