Sparrow-hawk
Osprey
Capercaillie
Mallard
You see my form
In cups of tea
In clouds and fog
I stroke the land
With white-gloved hands
You see my form
In cups of tea
In clouds and fog
I stroke the land
With white-gloved hands
You see my form
In morning mist
In Yorkshire’s pits —
A bed of holes that lies
In wait to swallow trains
A fry-up on the shovel
Water, a bit of lard
Fields alight with sparks
A bird kills a bullock
A ‘hundred and sixty-five ton bird!
Can you fire left-handed?
No? Well I’m not takin ye!
And don’t cross the chalk mark!
Can you smell aniseed?
A message wrapped round coal
Thrown out the cab:
“Get a fireman!”
It’s the night before, and Driver Joe’s thoughts turn to base metal shaking the very ore from his teeth.