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Poems About Miners

This poem is about the time I spent in the early 1960's working on a conventional, handfilled, undercut, "pick and shovel face" stent 8 yards long , 4'6" to the back of the cut, 3'3" maximum height, wooden props and flats.

My Working Day

Ten past five and the bedside clock
rings out its dreadful din,
I stumble wearily down the stairs;
my day is about to begin.

A quick cold swill and a hurried cup of tea,
no time for any fuss,
Then off I go with my "Tommy box"
to catch the workmen's bus.

Six o'clock at the pithead baths,
my clean clothes all are shed,
Now there's heavy boots on my feet
and a hard hat on my head.

I take my lamp it's been fully charged,
in the lamp-room over night,
The battery hangs down from my belt;
on my hat I fix the light.

Half past six and I'm on the bond,
descending at great speed,
Crammed in tight with all the rest,
to hold on there's no need.

We hit pit bottom with a bump
and set off for the face,
The walk is long and arduous
to reach our working place.

Seven o'clock I'm at the face,
the conveyor belt is filling,
Blast-picks hammer at the coal,
the dust they make is killing.

Pick and shovel I use in turns,
until my arms are tired and ache,
And bending over in the low,
my back feels like it will break.

Ten o'clock it's time for our food,
with hands all sweaty and black,
But the cheese and onion goes down a treat,
a miner's favourite snack.

All too soon our short break is done
and it's back to work we must,
Once more unto the breach dear friends
and the ever present dust.

One o'clock the days last coal's all shifted,
I'm sat here blacker than tar,
The roof is made safe and supported
and the tools are back on the bar.

I stretch as I get in the heading;
it's nice to stand straight for a change,
Though tired I'm feeling light-hearted,
for the end of the shift is in range.

Two o'clock in the pithead baths,
I'm washing away the grime,
Now clean and refreshed I head for home,
the bus it arrives on time,

On the table my dinner is waiting
and it's devoured without delay,
Then, with heavy eyes I slump in my chair,
at the end of my working day.

J. H. Smith

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