Steam in the air.


Rugeley power station chimney,
rises higher than the local church,
the river Trent,
filling the sky with huge white clouds,
visible from Brum.

In the run down shopping centre,
the bored, fit unemployed draw on cheap untaxed fags,
not even rich enough for a pound shop;
a ringed racing pigeon,
hangs round Greggs,
waiting for a bit of warm pasty.

They used to dig coal to power the Midlands,
solidarity,
torn apart by that feudal Tory arrogance,
down the generations;
a Jolly Roger,
hangs from the lino and carpet shop,
a portrait of Robbie Williams,
adorns the public house bar.

A friend died the other day,
he was a charming, handsome gentle man,
poverty had sapped his soul;
they still make guns in Birmingham,
change hangs as the snow.

The forlorn bare Christmas tree,
still stands in the square,
the girls in the sweet shop,
sell me some magic coconut mushrooms
and made the day bright.

~