Born in the thick of the night air’s smoke,
Under closed heavy clouds and carbonous coke,
Cradled and nurtured with soft lullabies,
Silver crossed pushed under molten red skies.

Blessed to a family with grit in their bones,
Hardened to work and the creaks and groans
of the giant ironworks, at the end of the street,
When she woke from slumber, she heard the feet –

of night time grafters padding their way
to a twelve hour shift, taking half their day,
A swift, ‘Good night’, and a ‘Stay safe pet,
your baits put up and the table’s set –

when you’re back in the morning, I’ll be up,
with a bacon sandwich and your favourite cup
of Ringtons tea; and the bed turned down,
leave your pay on the sideboard, the club’s due in town’.

Big sisters and brothers in the cold school yard,
Swap tales of candy cigarette cards,
Grumbling tummies getting ready for dinner,
Toad in the Hole is always a winner.

It’s time for a semi circled well scrubbed step,
After making sure the black path is swept,
A pan of potatoes, and the cabbage all chopped,
Minced steak prepared, with leek pudding on top.

Then, its belly bursts open and the rusty dust soars,
Mushrooming over the purple clad moors,
Settling calmly on Mondays washing,
Pegged out in the back streets, after possing.
The grime studded gutters lap up the noise,
As iron clad men who began, as just boys,
Rivet and fit, make their mark at the blast,
Ingots of steel in their moulds ready cast.

While sulphurous slag heaps glow bright at nightfall,
The rotten egg fumes permeating us all,
Blackened out boots reply to the sound
of clanking and banging as they stamp on the ground.

A pint in the stout house to relieve their dry thirst,
Before heading home and fearing the worst,
Then the news broke – eleven are dead,
These were the words they accepted with dread.

The rumble continues, the works do not rest,
as the red dust advances, being blown from the west.
The baby sleeps on in her flannelette bed,
Unaware of the others, with fears unsaid,

The mothers and wives and sisters all pray,
They won’t need to witness another replay,
Maintaining their care, to mend, save and borrow,
Hoping today, brings a brand new tomorrow.

Yet still they pad down, and up the dark streets,
Carrying haversacks full, of bread and cold meat,
to feed their broad shoulders, the men who must graft,
to forge Consett steel, robust to the last.

Get your copy of Life Lines here:

Life Lines – £5
Humorous poems about every day things
By Lorraine Weightman & Illustrated by Fr John Bagnall

All proceeds go to Brain Tumour Research through The Biking Vikings North East. Pop in and get your copy from Finishing Touch, The Hub Consett, Thackery’s, Forsters, Consett Eyecare, Decorbake, Traditional Shoe Repairs, The Heating and Bathroom Shop, Jula Crafts, St Patrick’s Church Consett, J A Styling, Sweet Things Cafe.

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Lorraine Weightman
Lorraine Weightman who regularly writes a monthly memoir telling of her days growing up in Consett has just published 2 books in conjunction with Firefly New Media Uk, which share 24 stories that were originally seen in Consett Magazine over the past few years.


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