Steelworks RIP
or
The Lament of RB Tennent
by
William Willis
Our foundry's last
arc-furnace, has now
simply all gone cold.
There is no steel to
pour no more, there is
no sand to mould.
Our steelwork's molten
ladles, of a 1000 odd
degrees.
Our industry is gone
now, it's been brought
down to it's knees.
R.B. Tennent was where I
did work, for 15 years
or so.
So I write these few
verses for the ones who
didn't know.
We made steel rolls for
the rolling mills, we
made them by the score.
What a pity that these
skills, are not used
here anymore.
Our furnace it would
blast, felt our eardrums
they were bleeding.
Our metal was now
crunching, it was
melting, it was
screaming.
It blazed just like a
hell on earth, like the
Devil's own back yard.
But watch you didn't get
burnt, had to be good on
your guard.
With the crane-man's
skilled hands, the ladle
it was lowered.
And with sublime
precision, the metal it
was poured.
The temperature was
good, it was now all
systems go.
The ladle was positioned
and the metal, it did
flow.
60 tons of metal held,
by a few course of hot
brick.
Didn't think what might
happen, t'would just
make you sick.
Many men they suffered
burns and a few they
even died.
They will always be
remembered, by those who
have survived.
The metal it was
pouring, like the shot
out of a gun.
It thundered and it
roared but shone, just
like the setting sun.
Tiny sparks they were
flying, as fireflies ran
amok .
It's funny how one
always seemed to end up
in your sock.
You would feel the spark
inside your boot, it was
now time for the
dancing.
You looked like Shakin'
Stevens doing a silly
dance and prancing.
Your workmates they all
had a laugh, as it
burnt right through yer
sock
Simon Cowell would have
been impressed, Oh Boy!
How you could rock.
It was a hot place to
work and the noise it
was intense.
But we always had a
laugh and the crack it
was immense.
We toiled and we sweated
in our 40 hour week.
But there always was
that little bit of
overtime to seek.
Two nights and a Sunday
was enough to feed the
weans.
Extra pieces in your
piece-box but she's put
in cheese again!
Stirred your coffee with
a pencil, that was
lodged behind your lug.
Scraped the beans out of
the can and used it as
your mug.
Turners, furnacemen and
moulders always fighting
over pay.
Electricians and the
labourers would also
have their say.
Union men and strikes,
you know the two go hand
in hand.
Fighting for their
colleagues pay and how
the jobs are manned.
Those days I can
remember, though it
seems so long ago.
The local steelworks
closing down, the whole
town dealt a blow.
The steelwork lying
barren now....... in
silence...... it is
true.
The site now a resident,
to that company B&Q.
©William Willis 2010
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Poetry
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