The Making Of A Worker.

 

The lorry tips its rubble

On the road outside our house,

the privet hedge engulfed

in a primordial cloud of dust,

it drives away in chugging glee

having spilled its heavy load

and we stand and watch it go

as the carbon mountain settles.

 

The sergeant-major father

barks his orders at the troops

and our little hands clasp tight

the metal shovels handed out.

“Get it in”, before the night falls,

in buckets as big as bird baths -

retracing ever-tiring steps

from black alps to the coal hole.

 

It’s mouth is wide and grinning

as we feed it from the offering

transported in our shuttle

to the god of heat and lighting.

it rattles down the greedy chute

to the devil down below

where he bellows and he belches

sooty clouds of satisfaction.

 

In the half light of the morning

other troops black lead the grate

of a gleaming fire place

in my mothers spotless kitchen

and we reverently fill

the bright red scuttle by the hearth

from the gently sleeping demon

satiated from its supper.

 

In our fingers sits a sixpence,

duly paid out for the labour.

In our eyes the shiny promise

of bubble gum and comics.

Whilst a loving, wet, warm flannel

wipes the coal dust from our creases

and we learn that hard endeavour

pays in currency of aches and pains.