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TheSirfurryanimalWales · 61-69, M
Father was a Miner.
My father was a miner, He worked deep underground;
The rush of drams and clanking chains. They were his daily sounds.
He worked so far below the ground, Where coal was hewed by pick,
The work so hard and wages small He didn't dare go sick.
He crawled upon his belly. In drifts so low and narrow,
The wind it whistled down the shaft. It chilled him to the marrow.
He ate his food from a Tommy box, Shaped like a slice of bread,
While squatting down upon the ground, Where spit and crumbs were shed.
His water, it was in a Jack, to wet down clouds of dust,
That gathered in his throat and lungs. Where it formed a deadly crust.
We would listen for his footsteps, He then come into sight:
This man, our Dad, as black as black, just like the darkest night;
His bath was always ready, Set down in front of fire,
My mother then would wash his back , and tell us to retire;
Right down his back white rivers ran amongst the dirt and grime,
But you cannot wash away blue scars. That you get down in the mine.
Years now have passed. My father gone, But I am proud to say,
MY FATHER WAS A MINER, UNTIL HIS DYING DAY.
Poem by William Holman.
Dad wasn’t a miner.Grandad was.
My father was a miner, He worked deep underground;
The rush of drams and clanking chains. They were his daily sounds.
He worked so far below the ground, Where coal was hewed by pick,
The work so hard and wages small He didn't dare go sick.
He crawled upon his belly. In drifts so low and narrow,
The wind it whistled down the shaft. It chilled him to the marrow.
He ate his food from a Tommy box, Shaped like a slice of bread,
While squatting down upon the ground, Where spit and crumbs were shed.
His water, it was in a Jack, to wet down clouds of dust,
That gathered in his throat and lungs. Where it formed a deadly crust.
We would listen for his footsteps, He then come into sight:
This man, our Dad, as black as black, just like the darkest night;
His bath was always ready, Set down in front of fire,
My mother then would wash his back , and tell us to retire;
Right down his back white rivers ran amongst the dirt and grime,
But you cannot wash away blue scars. That you get down in the mine.
Years now have passed. My father gone, But I am proud to say,
MY FATHER WAS A MINER, UNTIL HIS DYING DAY.
Poem by William Holman.
Dad wasn’t a miner.Grandad was.
Yulianna · 22-25, F
@TheSirfurryanimalWales 🇺🇦🌻🏴 i thought it was familiar!
Montanaman · M
@TheSirfurryanimalWales I so respect miner's. Beyond words. I work closely with them at The Plant.
TheSirfurryanimalWales · 61-69, M
Abstraction · 61-69, M
@TheSirfurryanimalWales So many lives spent in the most claustrophobic conditions, coating their lungs with god-knows-what, hard physical labour for little return whilst the self-satisfied wealthy scraped the profits up and squeezed down wages to misery level. And they did it for their families. They often couldn't give their kids everything they wanted to with the indignity of struggling to get by.
And here, in your poem, they are recognised. This. Was. Their. Life. Every day. No hope of anything much else. But they were probably better men than you and I, and made of sterner stuff.
And here, in your poem, they are recognised. This. Was. Their. Life. Every day. No hope of anything much else. But they were probably better men than you and I, and made of sterner stuff.