OH TO BE IN ENGLAND NOW RECESSION’S HERE
My bills pile high, though I live a frugal life
A church mouse comes to mind.
I’m shocked by electricity, drowned by water bills,
My food bills soar, in line with petrol prices, ever higher.
How will I pay my way? I’m threatened with short time.
My poetry used to flow, now I’m stuck with just one-liners.
I have a saviour for my ills, I’ll just drop him a line.
His expertise is unchallenged, his profile can’t be higher.
No money worries, he pays his bills on time,
By simply filling his expenses sheet in
He’s your MP and mine!
Alistair Cameron, Darlington
THE DAYS OF STEAM
The sheds are distant echoes felt,
Where once the mighty locos dwelt,
Now years of change have swept away,
The depots that have seen their day.
Streamlined electrics rule the rails
But in them interest quickly fails
to match the magic that was steam,
That now is but a distant dream.
To silent engines on parade,
At York and Shildon, tributes paid.
They do not move, their wheels are still,
Their purpose they can not fulfill.
And as the public wanders past,
These lifeless monsters from the past,
My mind goes back to when they ran,
To when they lived, their whistles sang.
For then it was a different tale,
When once these giants did prevail
Their noise, their smell, the hiss of steam,
To drive one, every schoolboy’s dream.
When iron houses ride the rails,
In them our interest never fails,
And once again we live the dream,
The dream that was the days of steam.
Alan S Holmes, Ferryhill
GRANDPA
My silver-haired grandfather, ancient to me
Was sun-browned and wrinkled of skin.
Beneath his best suit was a secret, guess
what? He wore a false leg, made of tin.
I discovered he’d lost his down the pit.
“How remiss,” the misguided might say.
But the cause of his mishap, a fall of loose
stone. Was a stark fact of life in his day.
Three fingers were missing from his hand.
How it happened he’d never say, then.
Be certain, however, of mine owners’ blame:
The coal was worth more than the men.
All the years that I knew him he hobbled
along, With the aid of his tin leg and cane.
He never complained, just got on with life,
Too proud to acknowledge the pain.
I remember my grandfather’s humour and grace,
for his grandchildren always a smile.
Who knew what it cost him in anguish and grief:
The price of the miner’s lifestyle.
Ken Orton, Ferryhill Station
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