The Arches
(c) Pat Wilson
The hoot of an Owl startled me.
Turning I spied him atop a tree.
The bird now quiet with wide eyes staring.
I stood at the Arches, their majesty glaring.
The moon disappeared behind a dark cloud.
Raindrops enfolded me like a burial shroud.
Inside the Arches it was dry and roomy.
While outside the shelter it was wet and gloomy.
There wasn’t a tavern. There wasn’t a house,
and the scurrying noise, I thought was a mouse.
“What are you doing here lad?” a stern voice said
“That pony needs loading with silver and lead”.
“Oh no Sir, not me Sir, I should be in bed”.
“Get a move on now lad” the older man said.
“I’m too young to work Sir, I want my Dad”.
“He’s dead and gone lad”, said the man looking sad.
I awoke with a start, I’d slept it seemed.
Of being a Mill worker apparently I’d dreamed.
Then slipped to the floor I saw what I’d read,
the story of Dukesfield and the smelting of lead.
Pat Wilson
