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My father was a coal miner, sent down the pit at fourteen, until he escaped in the war to the navy. He said that he carried us all on his shovel; and I remember him reading D H Lawrence, who also grew up near us.
Arthur Lawrence to his wife Lydia
You say my nails are dirty,and I say they are the nails
of a working man, and these
nails are on the fingers
of a working man, and these
fingers are on the hands
of a working man, and these
hands are on the arms
of a working man, and these
arms are on the shoulders
of a working man; and I carry
you all on my shovel as I dig
for the coal that stains my skin;
so milady do not disdain me,
for though I be a working man
I’m not ashamed of what I am.
© D G Moody 2022
Poetry by D G Moody
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Written on 2022-08-04 at 17:53
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