The Links North of Retford

And did the feet in recent times

Of blackened, tired working men,

Walk upon these hummocks, emerald green

As winter wheat grown on nitrogenous ground,

And were these gentle  undulations all around

Really slag heaps,

Dirt and nutty slack piled mound on mound?

And do the sons and daughters of such men          

Now walk in natty looking brogues,

Sporting Pringle jumpers, wide legged slacks,

To demonstrate that man is meant for leisure,

Utopia's to be found here on the earth,

In pursuit of this most mindless pleasure?

Was Oscar Wilde right simply to dismiss

The idea of the dignity of labour?

Do I really wish the mines might still exist?


 I do not have the answer to these questions,

So I asked D H Lawrence, in my head,

And as we drove past, his beard

Filled with flecks of foamy spittle

As he fumed in his confusion,

And I really can't remember what he said,

But he got his knickers in a dreadful twist.