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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