The Stoker

Sweat at the furnace face,
Stoker feeds hungry flame,
Skin glistens in fire reflection,
Eyes peer through wet grime,
Lungs bake in the heat,
And the engine throbs, ever needy,
Shovels clatter in the din,
Hungry, hungry, faster, faster,
Satiate the white glow,
Hatch opens to salty sting,
Cool air as boat lurches on a wave,
Soiled, damp handkerchief
mops perspiring brow, hair matted,
Hands sore, bloodied, blistered,
Knuckles gnarled,
The drone is relentless,
Time to descend to the black hole again,
And the roar of voracious inferno,
Pistons pounding steam,
And another one ascends, reaches for blue relief
while playful children squeal in delight,
Sea spray pinking their cheeks,
Oblivious as stokers toil, eternal,
The day is night in furnace storm.
© Michael Garrad October 2010