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Local Poetry

A Century of Winters Past  By David Hook

Spirits of a hundred Winters past,
Invisible footprints, that were meant to last,
Lifetimes that have gone away,
That brought us to where we are today.

Frosty mornings, early starts,
Pubs on corners, Horse and carts,
Shops that sold all goods and wares,
The Bus Conductor, shouting "fares."

Railwaymen, Mill girls, the Miners too,
The market place with tramlines through,
Everything in black and white,
Smoking chimneys with fires alight.

The towering buildings of the mills,
Workers with their unique skills,
Crowds march in the start the day,
To work long hours in a monotonous way.

Hats and flat caps, clogs and boots,
Blackened faces, cobbled routes,
Leading to the Coal mine gates,
Disappearing down the hole, not knowing their fate.

Clouds of steam announce it's running
The huff and puff of the Steam Train coming,
Railwaymen so full of pride,
Directing passengers to their ride.

The call up to defend our Land,
Men and Women, so proud they stand,
In uniform with weapons at bay,
We remember them all on Remembrance Day.

The Sabbath was a day of rest,
When people in the Sunday best,
Would fill the Church to sing and pray,
To hear the sermon of the day.

Memories of a Century gone,
Only our thoughts, they linger on,
The tales that grand parents used to tell,
When life was hard, but happy as well.