The house roused freezing to a winter’s morn
of belligerent clouds dirtying the light into a filthy grey
and she begging flames from a cantankerous stove.
In old wool, she dressed, a frayed apron and still
yawning her way out of the night’s damp slumber.
The waiting kettle, filled with hauled water
for brewing tea and boiling eggs,
near to simmering while she to rough knifing
into wholemeal bread and coercing stubborn butter,
as hard as iron’s ire, on to each thick cut of her labours.
Himself, half-dressed, a-stood death-like,
pleading for each breath,
black coughing into a bloodied rag, fear and a cuss
’till taken in hunger to the kitchen table.
Hankered into the morning’s fare.
He gnawed and supped, breaking off,
when wrenching free the vile splotched phlegm
and she, all in worries; bagging fodder for his lunch.
When cleared his lot, he took to leaning back some;
pinching a lock of baccy loose from a hung pouch,
crowded it into a paper leaf; rolled, licked and sealed.
When fired up, he drew the smoke, dark and deep;
exhaling, peaceful-like, the blue plumes of poison.
“Aah, the workin’man’s pleasure.” He’d sigh.
“They’ll surely kill ya, someday.” She, retorting.
“’Tis true, me dear,” he’d reply,
“’twixt them and the black dust, ’tis only a matter of when,
but who’d deny me, this tranquil pause?”
She helped him with the buttons of his coat,
fixed his cap and wrapped his scarf tightly
around his neck.
Kissed his cheek, waited the door,
watching him, careful in his winter gait
mid the morning’s labourers chiselling
through the hard dawn -
and he, to the bowels of hardship,
digging into the accursed blackness,
coughing up his day’s toil
and tranquil pauses
into a bloodied rag.
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Offline) - Published: July 31st, 2025 06:13
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy, Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments4
Nicely said, Tony. In many cases, it's reality for a lot of people - the cycle of life. This poem offers a profound examination of the harsh realities of working-class life, particularly focusing on the struggles, routines, and small comforts that define the daily existence of a couple facing hardship. It explores themes of love, labor, and the interplay between life and death, underscoring the resilience of the human spirit against the backdrop of a grim environment. The poem revolves around a winter morning in which a woman prepares breakfast for her husband, who is physically unwell yet still must face the demands of his labor. The poem captures their domestic scene, revealing the tenderness in their relationship amidst the struggles of working-class life, as well as the impact of illness and hardship on their daily routine.
This poem struck deep in my memories of my mother and father in law. The setting was perfect as was the dress and mannerisms as she tended the fire and he set out for morning chores only that he had stopped smoking just before I met him. I now far older than he was when I met him still enjoy my pipe. Another fave my friend.
Excellent write
A stark but beautifully written reminder of how harsh a working class family life's used to be, the grind of working in conditions that are destroying your health, the mother working her fingers to the bone to clean, cook, sew and maintain a family home that has next to nothing. It was for certain a much harder life then, nicely expressed and written
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.