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March 8, 2015
T’is dawn again,
and birds loudly coo
across the rooftops
near where Lowry drew,
when chimney smoke
turned the air to fog
and central heating;
no more than a log.
And coal dug up
by miners, many;
their hourly rate
less than a penny.
When Jack, in clogs,
strode up our street,
with flat cap on his head;
the look complete.
Hard days ahead meant,
‘clocking on’ at seven;
twelve hours of darkness,
hardly heaven.
Then back again down’t street,
our Jack would come,
stopping off to get his
well earned rum,
or some days maybe,
a gill of beer,
if funds were low and
payday wasn’t near.
and a lifetime later, pigeons coo,
perhaps thanking God,
that now the skies are blue,
and foggy days are far between, and few.
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