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Young Collier
by
Gary Westwood
I walked half asleep
along paths of my boyhood,
no longer a child.
Hard work was beckoning,
the coach, the sharra, the bus approached,
an oasis of light and tobacco smoke
in a damp cold desert of darkness.
It stopped, I climbed on
with leaden feet, slowly,
I greeted friends with a nod
not wanting to invade their thoughts.
These friends I could trust,
they'd watch my back
and wash it at the end of the shift.
Friends I'd remember in years to come,
long after they've made their last trip
to a hole in the ground.
Yes colliers all, sons of the Earth
a life subterranean
destined at birth.
Men you could trust
when the going got tough.
They're all gone now,
struck down in their prime,
no more sweat, toil and grime,
no ride before dawn,
no oasis for them,
just a fond memory
arrives now and then.
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