No medals for those who die on Site,
Just silence, till the Ambulance has gone,
Then, disconnecting like a crumpled kite,
The twisted scaffold, he had fallen from.
No more teasing his taste in Sandwiches,
Or Football team, that lost, again,
Just back to gable-ends steep pitches
As bosses begin, to shift the blame.
After the Funeral, we drank to him,
He, who was one of us,
Those who risk life and limb,
Gathered tightly, into a nucleus.
Hushed, we lifted Whiskey and Ales,
To a life, that rang with hammers and nails.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
No medals for those who die on Site,
Just silence, till the Ambulance has gone,
Then, disconnecting like a crumpled kite,
The twisted scaffold, he had fallen from.
No more teasing his taste in Sandwiches,
Or Football team, that lost, again,
Just back to gable-ends steep pitches
As bosses begin, to shift the blame.
After the Funeral, we drank to him,
He, who was one of us,
Those who risk life and limb,
Gathered tightly, into a nucleus.
Hushed, we lifted Whiskey and Ales,
To a life, that rang with hammers and nails.
This poem is for my mate Martin, who I was working alongside,
when he fell off the scaffolding
