I sometimes walk these broken fields

Of rusting iron and greasy slicks

And mark with shallow breath

The poisons in the air

 

A careless joy was in this place

And in my time-trapped mind

The broken walls still echo

The intemperate play of would be men

 

Trapped in row upon row

The turning steel with anguished cries

drowned the boastful yells

Of tormenting youth

 

Acid spills and smoking forge

The groan of heavy doors

Broken tools and shouts for oil –

Machines wept here, daily.

 

Lunch at the slag pile

Football in the yard

Where goods trains

Took our youth away.

 

Short afternoons of sweat

Glistening backs

Clock watching eyes

 

The machines’ silence deafening when we leave.