First Foot
Two small brown pennies were thrust in his hand,
Some bread, and a lump of coal,
Our Mam had added a sprinkle of salt
‘For luck, ’ she said, and his soul.
‘The Devil is waiting for you out there, ’
She laughed, and shivered for real,
‘You have to be gone when the clock strikes twelve! ’
She let out a little squeal!
It was ninety-nine; it was New Year’s Eve,
Victoria sat on the throne,
Our house a terrace on Coal-Pit Street,
It was cold and damp, but home.
Our Da had gone as the miners go
Under a fall of coal,
His body was left where it fell that day
They closed off the tunnel wall.
He left a couple of likely lads
That’s Joe, and me, right here,
But Joe was the eldest, quite thirteen,
And he with the blackest hair,
The bevy of girls just giggled that night
First foot was always a man,
(It was in the Wales that we knew back then
When the nightmare first began!)
We pushed him out when the clock began
To strike the midnight hour,
The last of the eighteen hundreds, and
We slammed the wooden door,
A lightning bolt gave a mighty flash,
The rain turned into hail,
While the clock, it chimed the first of six
Behind the mantle rail.
The thunder rumbled overhead
It brought us to our knees,
The girls cried out to their mother then,
But she cried out to me,
The door exploded in splinter-shards
A lightning hit, outside,
I rushed through the shattered opening…
Thinking that Joe had died!
The kerb was black and burnt, and all
The street lamps, they were out,
Pieces of tile and chimney pot
Were scattered, round and about,
But Joe, there was no sign of him,
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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