| |
I watched my father get the coal,
His body, black and damp.
With a pick, hammer and a wedge,
In the shadows from his lamp.
No machine could slice the coal
From off the cutting side
With more precision than his pick,
With a Davey lamp his guide. |
| |
With tempered blade and hickory shaft,
He cut the brittle coal.
It split and flew to leave it's mark
On his body and his soul.
The blue scars on his hands and face
Were his working class degrees.
For the time spent, swinging pick and spade.
And a lifetime on his knees. |
| |
Like a soldier fighting at the front,
Stood in the firing line.
He slaved his working life away,
For a pittance down the mine.
He cut each stubborn piece of coal
To leave a path behind.
Then laid a track with iron rails,
For others of his kind. |
| |
He faced the dangers with contempt
That only time can bring.
He hit and then, propped up the roof,
When he heard the metal ring.
I still can see him, on his knees.
A man amidst the dust.
The type of man the country needs,
The ones that we can trust. |
|
|