Elmsall Impressions #1

Dig South Elmsall!

Dig her dogshit streets

Windblown garbage

Roaming like tumbleweed

Down empty roads

Some old American ghost town

Where the ghosts refuse to leave

Or die

Dig the voices!

Deep gravy-soaked voices

Yorkshire voices

Echoing in ginnels

Like brass band tubas

Dig the windows!

These low living room windows

Curtains open

TV flashing

Staring in

At miners' widows

Slouched in bathrobes

Staring out

Dig the violence!

In their eyes

In screwed-up faces

Lines telling tales

Of generations past

Of miners' lamps

Of blackened faces

Of mothers shouting from the step

Of father's mighty coaldust fist

Of beer

Of chip pans

Of work

Of life

Dig these men!

Men on bikes

Riding to factory all night shifts

Hum and buzz and whirr

The sound of South Elmsall nights

The age-old train

The top of the hill

The quiet lights glisten