‘AND DID THOSE FEET?” DAY FOUR OF A POEM A DAY FOR APRIL

And did those feet?

We were told not to

cross the bridge

at certain times

from town

and back to work

when the buzzer

sounded at twelve

or four when men

would pour across

it like a river.

Not to walk back

from town

to work

where we

clocked-in

clocked-out

clocked-in

again.

Back to work 

in the closed-in 

typing pool

of women

a box within

a box smelling 

of ciggies

hair-spray

nail polish 

and acetate.

But those feet that walked or ran, or biked, or 

sometimes drove, imprinted their mark

on that bridge’s hard tarmac.

Feet of men who

worked at the Yard

who pounded their dreams

day in, day out

pounded it

that hard road

pounded it

the road

that led from town 

to island. Now 

when I drive 

to Walney 

that bridge 

is still peopled 

by men in overalls

and I recall 

it’s their energy 

that lit up 

this windy town 

of Barrow – theirs

and ours, too

the typing pool

of women,

our shorthand

hieroglyphics

our click-clack

of polished nails

on typewriter keys

our tickertape of dreams

that launched more than

a thousand ships, or

Type 42's, more than 

nuclear-powered submarines.