We Need A New Driver

Past smoke-stained cottages
The dark engines pours ash of vitriol
Over newly-baptised heads of babies peering
From prams by the sweet shop’s windows,
Clouding the sky a paler shade of grey.
Grimy industrial girders clank in rhythm
Taking empty carriages down, down to the pit.
Men blink like moles in sunshine,
Coming up for air at shift’s end.
Pile upon pile of blackness heaped on the wheels,
Like willing scapegoats bearing a sinful load,
Ash cloys the air down to their lungs and further.
Fine painters in the devil’s galleries,
Van Gogh of the shadows and sunflowers,
Giotto of the flaking frescoes in the dark.