Wednesday, 3 April 2013

WELDERS' SHOP VICKERS, POEM A DAY, DAY THREE





BUT THE WELDERS' SHOP,

doors flung open on hot days 
and you’d peek in see them at work, 

vizors covering faces, noses, chins, 
anonymous men, focused

on blazing sparks, shaping hot metal
into parts for submarines to cool

in Arctic waters, asbestos gloves pulled
up to their elbows, unknown

until the four o’clock buzzer sounded
and they stripped off overalls and vizors

threw down gloves onto benches, turned off
acetylene blow-lamps, reclaimed their identity

became someone you danced with at 
Vickers Sports Club, 
became someone your dad knew, became

someone’s brother, someone's father, someone's
lover - no longer Hephaestus, gods of fire.

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