Industry shaped this village:
The streets nestle up to the incline;
The houses were shaken by coal trucks rattling down.
A closed world, once, where a life could be spent;
Called to pit by the knocker-up,
A day's work, damp, dank, dark, dusty,
Then rolling home, grimed and wearied, to sleep.
Mine and jobs have gone,
But pride and dignity remain,
An army of everyday heroes.
A child fed, dressed, to school on time,
A triumph as great as any battle won.
On the pavement by her gate,
Nana Griffiths is setting the world to rights
With each sweep of her broom.
Martin Locock, 2000
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