The Coal Man Cometh

About the end of times when Carts were hauled by Shires, Coal was king and homes Were heated by open fires, A seemingly huge dark figure From my early childhood days As he drove his horse and cart Through the country byways From village to village to village Delivering sacks of coal To feed our coal fires, then Each home’s heart and soul. One hundredweight of coal Measured into each heavy sack Which they’d hoist off the cart Onto a waiting broad back To be carried to the coal shed To be skilfully slipped And with ease of movement Very carefully tipped Not a black lump wasted As it piled on the coal heap8 For money was tight And coal wasn’t cheap. His horse patiently standing By each house’s kerb side Waiting to be led on or For him to climb up and ride. Hours they must have spent Huddled on that cart seat Muffled up for winter’s cold Or soaking up summer’s heat. One day suddenly, progress, The Shire retired out to grass The second hand liveried lorry Shelter behind steel and glass. Still a hard dirty job but warmer As the world moved slowly on King Coal was coldly murdered And the job was virtually gone. Just a figure from history From a simpler, slower age Not even meriting a foot note On a social history primer’s page. Is there a niche in time and space Where a coal man and his horse, Waggon piled with sacks, eternally Trundles his once essential course