n the 1980’s, I visited a small factory on the Wirral producing black plastic sacks. Granules in, rolls of sacks out. Just two men managed the whole plant. Automated manufacturing and automated process engineering was, even then, having a devastating effect on working man. How would the unemployed occupy themselves day in, day out?
I came away concerned.
Forty years on, we have not fully tackled nor solved that situation and now the scale is even greater. We have a huge social and health problem as a result. Clearly, there are pockets of social initiatives aimed at easing the domestic problems, and astute entrepreneurs are reinventing ‘Cottage Industries’. The fact remains, being unemployed does not put adequate food on the plate; does not allow man to hold his head high with pride, to enjoy comradeship and financial reward. We are also in danger of educating our young for a type or level of employment that will no longer exist whether it is in retail, manufacturing, or commerce.
Below is one of a series of three poems I have written on this matter which are published in my POEMS BY AN OLD CODGER – BOOK ONE.
THIS TINY ISLAND
This tiny island so scarred and stained
By picks and shovels and muscles strained,
Deep in the bowels of this precious land
Men sweated and ached heaving coal by hand.
Dust in lungs, cuts in hand,
Scars on skin, wet clothes just hang
On bodies bent low swinging at coal,
Dynamite ready to shove in the hole.
Props take the strain with creaking and moan,
Black gold, false gold, rubble, and stone
Is shovelled away for onward transmission,
Into small wheel wagons for human consumption.
Women and children in homemade shawls,
Stagger against winds up to the mills.
Wide leather belts slide overhead,
Very long hours for pieces of bread.
Health is a threat, dust is the curse,
Accidents happen there is no nurse.
It’s not safe for children, it’s not safe for girls,
A slip of the belt and off go their curls.
Technology came and workers sat down
In front of a switch, a lever, in gowns
And hairnets, gloves, glasses
And protection from sounds.
Then skills were replaced by robots and things
That never get tired and don’t even sing.
They never complain, they never get stiff,
They never sit down in a Union tiff.
The workers sit down but now in a chair,
By their fire or TV with an air of despair.
Freedom from toil, freedom from sweat,
But missing their pals and not feeling great.
This tiny island so scarred and stained,
Reflects the past, the young must be trained
To recover the land and sea and the air we breathe.
Sadly, this land to them we now bequeath.
Copyright 2023 Neil Davies
I hope you enjoyed this poem and gives you food for thought.
Tell your friends and family and support my charity**.
Stay Safe, Neil
** The British Red Cross Ukraine Appeal.