The Aveling’s Burning

The Aveling’s burning; in the machinery hall
They’re melting down the lathes and the finisher’s tools.
The engines steam and the boilers boil,
With righteous anger at the shame of it all.

The Aveling’s burning; when men were men,
With handlebar moustaches and tobacco tins
And a flask of fine dry London gin
In their overalls pocket for the work day’s end.

The Aveling’s burning; where the fitter’s mate
Met his pouting sweetheart by the factory gates.
He said “when I’m with you I feel ten feet tall”,
Then carved her name into the red brick wall.

The Aveling’s burning; where they first met,
Over Earl Grey tea and cigarettes.
He asked for her hand, “I do” she cried,
Then they walked arm in arm by the riverside.

The Aveling’s burning; like a funeral pyre,
Like an impious crematory fire
For the memories of workers’ lives
For their loves, their laugter and their pride.


About andrewday82

My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right. View all posts by andrewday82

4 responses to “The Aveling’s Burning

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: