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Young Collier By Gary Westwood

By Black Country Bugle  |  Posted: June 04, 2014

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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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