Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.214

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

Blood money isn’t paid in silver these days,
just transferred to your account
with a sheet of computerised data
to tell you their proffered amount.
I’m standing over the fish sheds,
to my front near empty docks,
to my rear swift running Humber,
to the left the gates and the locks.
In my pocket this little piece of paper
that  tell  me the price of my pride
and I’m standing out here in the open
‘cos I won’t be seen crying inside.

So many years I served on those trawlers
the boy to man years of my life
I saw so much more of my ship mates
than I did of my children and wife;
stood on the decks in the cold and the fog
and the rain and the sleet and the ice
gutting the fish for your table.
We accepted it wouldn’t be nice.

I worked all those years for a living
because fishing was part of my blood
from, a proud and vital community
surviving both bad years and good.

Most of those years worked for one company,
most of that time in one or two ships
I was a regular deckie
I didn’t miss many trips.
Then they turned and told me you’re finished
with  just a swift oh by the way
you were only a casual worker,
don’t get any severance pay.

All these years we’ve fought for our justice.
For recognition of our effort and pride,
Our numbers slowly dwindling.
One by one old comrades died:
And now they tell me  this  is victory
time to pay for my wasted years
so I’m standing atop of this fish shed
no shame in my bitter tears.
enjoy your cod my brother
but grant me one little wish.
Before you add your vinegar
just think of one price paid for fish.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required