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Bitumen Factory

Workmen stand dutiful, straight legged, erect,
none neglecting their benches. They walk gravely,
bending at the hip, pour black pitch
into empty pails, carried outside for sale
to other men who crouch to fit stones,
honing each jig saw piece, proceeding row by row
to mend the cobbled street. Hot tar gleams
in the cold twilight; a shower of rain spreads
beneath the tired feet of a stained man
walking towards home. He looks straight ahead,
not noticing stars between smoke drifting from factories,
chimneys briefly touching,Orion, Aquila, Lacerta,
kaleidoscope a cosmic map across the road.
Door opens, then slams shut. Inside he stares
at grey peeling walls, while he struggles
to keep his eyes from closing

16 Jan 09

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nice poem.

should that be 'their benches' in l2?

great use of kaleidoscope in l13.

i was in the north-east of india, two years ago.
the miners there spend the whole day in a 4x3 tunnel, laying flat. two miners to one shaft. and they sell 100 kilos for less than two quid, a day.
 — varun

When I read one of your new poems, it's hard to go into it feeling objective, I always expect something brilliant, and you haven't failed to please.

I love lines 9-11, we've all been in that twilight, lost and found.
 — unknown

Thanks varun
 — larrylark

If only, onknown
 — larrylark