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The Dying Picket
 
 

From a rain blackened sky crept the first grey light

That heralded the dawn and the demise of night,

And in that instant when a new day was born,

A strident bell left the silence torn.

Life stirred irritably 'neath the cotton sheets,

Whilst the rain splashed mercilessly on the cobbled streets.

 

The incumbent rose from his bedraggled bed,

Hair matted with blood on his weary head.

He donned the grease stained coverall

And ventured down the icy hall.

He washed his face and combed his hair,

His reflected image screamed back despair.

 

Thirty weeks he had fought this fight

Could he be wrong, were the others right?

Desparation swelled in his bone weary chest,

Could he be wrong, what about the rest?

He'd gambled all on this long strike

Of such deprivation, he'd not known the like.

 

He shook his head to clear his brain

Then stepped out into the pouring rain.

With shoulders hunched and collar high,

He sallied forth for one more try.

The strike for him came to an end,

On a rain soaked road and a dangerous bend.

 

His car collided with a tree

Thus ending this poor miner's misery.

This man would never strike again,

He lay inert in the pouring rain.

He'd fought the fight right to the end,

Curse that rain, that tree, that bend.

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Copyright 2005 David Burt , all rights reserved
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