In Times Of Hardship Poem by john (called jack) wren

In times of hardship, times of strife,
My feet knew you well, in younger life.
I was just a young boy in short pants
With bark off my knees from former rants.
My cardigan had seen better days
Its wool drifting in different ways,
Frayed at the cuffs, worn at the neck
Torn at the shoulder from a fall in the beck.
My bogy made from spent co-op wood
Its wheels the best in the neighbourhood,
Was ideal for transporting heat giving coal
Tipped down the heap, by tubs on patrol.
To be picked with care by a bleeding hand
From this bleak, dangerous wasteland,
Whose outer crust would move at will
Like a trough of slimy pigs swill.
My feet move with the sensitivity of a cat
Lightly over this shifting habitat.

As towards me, with deadly rumble
Stones large and small tumble
Towards the earth in an avalanche
Like a tree sheds a dying branch.
I dodge these waves of death
But only by a short hairs breath.
My heart jumps when they hit the ground
And stagger about like a wounded hound,
I am startled by all this noise
And breathe in deeply to regain my poise.
The time has come to be discrete
Before I tremble in hand and feet
And leave the scene self-controlled,
Pail filled to the brim with black gold.

Memories of a young boy of 13
Searching for coal
On Chopwell pit heap.
A hazardous occupation in 1950.