Black Country Dawn

In a winter snow storm, at the dawn of the day By an old open fire, that would light my way I was born to parents, still finding their way In a Black Country home, in a world full of grey Snug in peace that followed the war The English and Irish were counting the score My heart learned to walk, my mind learned to speak The shadows and memories, were starting to creep There was fire, in the black coal there was warmth, in the cold There were stories waiting for me to take hold. There were hard working men, and women who did more There were lovers and losers like never before There were factories, and foundries, turning hearts into stone And those feelings that come when love hangs up the phone There were canal boats, and steam trains, by rainwater drains There were dreams in the backstreets about old country lanes No Blacks. No dogs. No Irish… for sure Said the signs in the windows where the gossip did pour No time, for self-pity, no time for regret As the dust on those medals began to collect But their brightness, remained. It would come to collect Deep in the dullness, when ourselves we neglect Alone with my parents in that Black Country dawn At peace in those arms I have since learned to mourn With strangers, in a strange world was I gasping for breath Was the air, even then, full of life and death? Did I cling, like a climber, to their softspoken words Content, like sheep in flocks and herds Did accents charm me: from both sides of the sea? Floating my boat, with its own destiny My Irish grandma, was waiting her turn With old photographs she was destined to burn Alone in the night, with her husband long gone. Remembering the tune of an old Irish song There’s a football stadium, and grammar school pride But none of those places would be part of my ride When the council came calling, Grandma boarded her home With nails and wood in her own war zone They evicted her heart from so many years For the sake of progress she held back her tears This was Wolverhampton, where the heroes were sore. This was not what they sought, coming home from the war This was the Black Country, to which I was born Among the roots of my soul from which I was torn I was more than three, and above the knee When they moved to Birmingham without asking me There I climbed trees, in search of the sky Looking for answers to every… why Did I pine, for the old place, or was I too young to care Did I feel in the wrong place, deprived of my share I once warmed myself among the soot, and the grime Where unemployed miners, were biding their time I once passed the Irish down English streets Baby sat by a grandma with bags full of sweets The ash and the corn, all golden and shorn The hearth and the scarf on a cold winter’s morn