My Father Built England ‘Show me your hands.’ It was the only question The foreman asked. They were your references And your scholarship. That is why my father used Piss to harden his schoolboy hands, as was custom When blisters set fire to the skin, an ancient trick Shown to him by a Meath man who died beneath A truck, sober in Kilburn. In 1939, England needed A solid Paddy full of gristle, to be counted on, Semi-British for the duration. You supply your own Sweat and wellies but could pick a white virgin Shovel from the Gaffer and return it sharp, shined By gravel. Only once was he broken, when black Winds blew down the scaffolding; its tubular legs Dancing across the unfinished airstrip. As he lay Dead, a Geordie Tea-Boy nursed him well. Wet Time was a bloody nightmare; always under The Landlady’s feet and once he was thrown Out of digs in a row about Rex’s favourite chair. It was 1942 before he could pin fifty pounds to The inside of his overcoat and take himself home. Then, while German bombs fell on England, My father built Ireland for Hogan and Son. by Ron Carey from Southward Journal April 2013 Posted by Jim Culleny at 06:16 AM | Permalink
Posted on: Fri, 14 Jun 2013 11:17:30 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015