Made in Sheffield
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 cig, 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 rite 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
Another crew tames the roaring furnace
Spewing flame, like some demonic dragon
Molten Metal, thrashes out,
Shower upon shower, of burning sparks,
That brand and seer the skin,
A steel workers tattoo of Pride
And the heat, always the heat,
Creating a perfume of toxic aftershave
A vision of Hell created by Man on Earth,
But yet through the heat and smoke, there are voices,
No Angels here,
For this is them, these Men of Steel,
“Ready for a pint”,
“Ahr lass got belly up, ”
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poem by Steven Cooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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