Longer than Grindleford tunnel,
a musky damp of not being lived-in,
a sort of dank, like all is lost and gone,
folk shake under ganister in fear,
trapped, each thought hacked.
The labour brought and bonded here -
it's O.K. to stare or look away, choices are difficult.
How was the brick top curved
under limestone, sandstone and grit?
Down the walls ancient sweat drips.
Arson orange flames at one end,
each flare exposes faces of the fallen,
who mouth their pain, their screams,
from chacun pour soi their squalls
pierce each course and stretcher in these walls.
But there is a second flame
slow burning behind the shadows
it starts to kindle and to blaze
an incandescence in the dark,
to redeem the struggle of their days. Jeffrey Loffman
Note:
THE SECOND FLAMING: Tony Benn spoke about each
generation having to repeat the struggle for real
democracy; each
generation’s work is spurred on by two flames: one the
flame of anger at injustice, the other the flame of
hope.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jeffrey Loffman would
be pleased to hear from you.
