MY FATHERS EYES
I’m looking through my Father’s eyes
as a cloud white curtain lifts.
Coal-fired smoke curls upward,
the still street stands bereft.
‘Salt of the earth’ pillars of stone identical to each,
light ghostly chorus as if to say,
'there’ll be no changes here today'.
A dismal dawn squints down on those
who long to abandon ship.
While others to their fate resign,
white flags fluttering from chimney breasts.
Who rolled the dice to seal his fate?
It’s 5. 00a.m, there goes the gate,
on another monochrome morning,
and I’ve never known him late.
Those beating hearts of the Black Country
that pumped the blood of industry
through a dirty river of factory waste.
While bitter winds of earthen soot
settled lightly underfoot.
On washing lines, and windowsills, as
palls of smoke obscured the hills.
Stolen sunlight arrowed beams
through broken skylight panes of gloom,
where beads of dust danced in the light,
illuminating toxic fumes.
The tell-tale cough, and laboured breath,
served notice of an early death.
Women and men with dust and rust
coursing through their veins.
Whenever I hear a gate snap shut,
I’m reminded of their pain.