Made In Sheffield
Made in Sheffield by Steven Cooke
Its Early Morning, a mist descends into the valley.
Not a Mist, from some love poem, but a fog forged in graft.
No sun shines here, for there is no welcome.
For here lies the Crucible of the World,
No bird song, only furnace dust,
And a dead river.
For this is Sheffield Steel.
The grime covered buses arrive for Morning shift,
Windows grey with smoke,
For breakfast, Woodbines and Senior Service,
A dripping crust and a flask of tea or two.
One by one, they descend,
A goliath of manhood,
Raw Power, Natures finest creation
An elephant gun would not bring these men down.
A pot of tea, another ***, then into the mill
Into the Heat, Dante’s Inferno,
Armed only with Leather Aprons and tongs,
First job, a tank Barrel,
They work as a team,
A sacred bond, forged in years of graft
Pure Strength twisting, the writhing white hot ingot,
In a rhythm, nay a dance, with a twenty ton hammer.
The Grace of Men in harmony with Machine,
A right of Passage, their inheritance.
But this is also a dance with the devil,
One crack and shards of death rain upon them,
No escape, Just a Bed in Tinsley Cemetery,
Plenty of company there.
Dinner time approaches, the apprentice brings dinner
Half a loaf of bread, dug out, and filled with chips,
Plenty of Salt and Vinegar.
Then a link of black pudding
Washed down with four bottles of Stones Bitter,
And a couple of woodbines.
No Health and Safety here.
But Time moves on,
The steel workers and Miners, all gone
Broken By Maggie.
Thrown on the scrap heap of yesterday.
Sculptors of their craft,
Never to work again.
Now the Rivers run clean.
And the birds sing,
And the sun, shines on the valley
But not on the Steel workers,
For they have faded away
Replaced by the souls of Progress,
Shopping Malls and stadiums.
For Sheffield is now a City of Sport.
And Tourism reins King.
But spare a thought, for these Men.
Our Fathers, who lived there way,
With courage and honour.
Steel was there Church,
Built on the Foundations of Pride
Their graft, a noble Calling
And sacrifice, there honour in death.
These Men who celebrated Friendship,
A pint, a smoke, and a gamble.
For this was their Home, their Sheffield,
It was Their Craft, Their sweat,
That, forged the world,
And it forged me,
And now, a part of my World is lost forever.
So let the history books be kind,
And lets us remember fondly, these Men,
Made in Sheffield.
Copyright © Steven Cooke | Year Posted 2011
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