When you left the nightshift
You would walk home
It was 4 o’clock in the morning
There were no buses for two hours
You were glad
That it was spring
That the night sky was clear
Along the sleeping country road
From the little town
But every night
You had to walk across
The refuse tip
With its changing topography
Of pits and mounds of rubbish
You stumbled
Over rotting heaps
You fell on your face
So many times
Beneath the silent starry sky
Between work and home
Felling hopelessly blind
As the tip rose above your head
As Hednesford hills spun around you
Like a witches merry-go-round
Crawling out of holes
Carrying your sorrows
Over the bad land
Every night
And no one sympathised
No one offered you a lift back
Around the patch of land
That you walked
With increasing feelings
Across the debris
Falling into pits
Like a dead bird
