‘It runs through our blood’
A new day
dawns, another cold February morning commencing.
The
penetrating bitter wind chills me to the bones as the river punches fiercely at
my boat.
Beads of
sweat trickle down my forehead whilst I heave yet another hulk of cargo, the
pride of my master only urges me to work harder.
The drone of
men rushing about along the docks buzzes in my ears.
For
generations my ancestors have looked upon my dear family as they work on the
Thames,
For
generations our hands have been battered by the cruel weather.
The Thames runs
through our city, it courses through our blood.
We powered
the city and kept it flowing, our jobs all but gone.
Our story
still lives on…
No comments:
Post a Comment