Forecasts

'...the burnt-out end of smoky days' T.S. Eliot l The evening rumbles in and grumbles, tea is served, the kettle whistles, bread is buttered, weary workers settle, nibble, drink their tea and chatter, as the platter's passed around and cakes are proffered in the cozy parlor, lamp-lit, rum is offered, daily bread, and thankful for it. Curtains closed against the weather, children say their prayers together, snug and safe now, sister, brother. ll The morning sun prods sleepyheads to service and to play, the colliery beckons and the women make the beds. The cobbled backstreets glisten from the rain the night before. The siren calls and all the miners listen, they heed the strident roar and pull on their coveralls. lll You take fresh linens from the chest, it's time to straighten up the nest, then gargle, and repair your face to meet the challenges and woes, you hold your children to your breast and wonder how by heaven's grace you'll pay the rent, afford the food, as praying to the Lord you stand and shiver, arms and legs are shaking, all a'quiver, a dreadful vision haunts your eyes, the poor house, shameful to conceive, you lie upon the bed and weep, how will you cope, how will you sleep? no items left to compromise, a constant struggle to believe. 1V He wrestles with his conscience, tried and troubled, thoughts of fraud and theft beset him constantly, he's torn, his sickened heart is worn, bereft. He looks into the eyes of strangers, each consumed with his own fears, distraught, and never satisfied, into a world of want, stillborn, condemned to worry all these years. I suffer with these souls who wander through a life of toil and grief, tread-milled with no hope of solace, no expectation of relief.