A POEM FOR DUKESFIELD.
Trees; pine green.
Swaying to the soft breeze tonight,
Candles; sunshine yellow, shining bright.
Arches; old, high and strong,
The bridge is crumbling, and quite long.
Horses’ hoof prints on the ground,
As their furry ears hear the sound,
Of other ponies here, around.
We sit around a little fire,
The flames growing higher and higher.
As the little stream ripples along,
The blackbird sings her tuneful song.
In the olden days when the arches were used,
The strong, tough men weren’t aloud to snooze.
They used to smelt and get some lead,
After work they went straight to bed.
The men worked hard and received not much pay,
But they tried there absolute best to survive the day!
By Eleanor Sowerby
