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.