STEEL
Radio blares to the point of distortion,
trying to drown out
the noise of steel on steel.
Ferocious arc burns
in a crescendo of violent noise.
In rhyme, a waterfall of fire
blasts into the air.
Solid steel, cold, hard,
a symbol - strength,
quivers and yields
to the heat of the arc
torn from its fellow molecules
by force - compressed life.
The tradesman a sculptor?
This trade a craft
to gouge the steel
to shape and form
but not with the potter's feel.
Indifference, combat,
brain against brawn,
to mould the carbon form
into civilisation.
Heat ever present.
Winter is a relief short lived.
Summer drains one
in leather clothed protection,
a second skin to seal in the heat.
Dust and sweat mix,
an initating saline cocktail.
Blackened gloved hand
leaves oily lines
across a sweaty furrowed brow.
The steel lives, breathes,
it sweats, it speaks,
taste it in the air,
in the blood,
the hair and skin.
It's a part of you.
A scaled chameleon
with its shifting colours
black, blue, orange,
red, yellow, white.
A living being.
Its intellect,
the forces of nature
moulded by man,
combine, a formidable foe.
PIT TOP
Spinning wheel - steel cable,
life line to the poppethead.
Stale air blasts free.
Cage ascends - a piston,
a clattering cell.
Brakes on drum
screaming steel.
Gates open loud,
clunk - slide - crash.
Blackened faces - white smiles.
Crib tins and head lamps,
cigarettes passed around.
A blackened cough, spit, laugh.
Another day - another lousy dollar.
DOGWATCH DAWN
BHP Newcastle Steelworks - Winter 1982
It's so warm.
Furance coat and a preheat flame.
Curled up on my drum
the welding gun is silent.
Drift away from the workshop din
and the foreman's eager gaze.
....... was I asleep?
What time is it?
Wish it was crib.
Get up uneasily
to stretch
these limbs asleep.
Look out beyond the bloom mill
toward the frosted cranes.
Steam rises everywhere
fighting the chilled sea breeze.
Just a hint - a change.
Black turns to grey.
Behind the glowing furnace
a shot of pink.
Smoke curls up from my cigarette
to witness the sunrise.
Rays of weak yellow and gold
filter through the dusty doorway.
Cold dawn breeze
washing against my face.
Brings new life
to blood shot eyes.
Take another drag
into my over worked lungs.
Shiver and spit.
Welcome - another dogwatch dawn.
THE LAGGER
His eyes are open weeping wounds.
Staring in silence down the lens
they tell the painful story
of a thousand tiny knives
embedded in his rasping lungs.
The journalist's concern is oddly genuine.
The hardened hack felt for this man
reduced to an industrial cast away,
like another worn out machine,
no longer useful to the production line.
He's not a miner from Wittenoom.
His mine was the bowels of the engine room.
A lagger lumping steam pipe,
he had no idea
that asbestos dust
would cost so much
and how little one man's life is worth.
I feel the anger well in my tears.
I want to smash those bastard bureaucratic heads.
I want to turn back the clock.
I want justice to be done.
I want him to live!
Three weeks later he died...,
said the solemn television voice.
The pain and indignity is over,
legal ledgers closed and filed,
as the dust settles on another grave.
WHISPERING WIND
There's a whispering in the wind
whipping through the wire.
Its call, a chant, beckoning my soul.
Through the wire barbed
heat and sting bring the cattle in
from the distant plains.
I can taste and see
the broad brown country
in the steak on my plate.
Fork circles steak,
mind spinning in the past.
I can taste my past.
Whispering wind blows across the table
carries the scent of the sun
and the northern way of life.
I want to leave this place,
leave behind the tyranny
of steel walls, shackle and chain.
Midnight Oil's "Run by Night"
is spinning on the turntable,
burning in my ears.
Reminds me of the days,
not so long ago,
when we were burning up the coast.
The sun speckled sea
ocean days, drunken nights
laughing at the Capricorn.
Rust storms and dust,
steelwalls, chains and things
don't hold me anymore.
Life's door was closed and bolted,
guess that was the last straw.
Down tools and abdicate.
Nothing ventured, nothing explained.
Give me back the road
the white lines and familiar names.
Peace around that next corner
under the old mango tree
whispering fruit to me.
Take a bite and taste,
the taste of freedom
in the land of make believe.
© 1997 david.cameron@mailbox.uq.edu.au
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