Picket Duty
It’s 6 am when I arrive at the top of Steve’s lane
dark as pitch. Raining! A shadow moves, the car door opens
"Morning Comrade!" The door shuts "Morning."
Driving away to the swish of wipers, the hiss of tyres.
At our destination we unload the car, set out our stall
Cursing the rain and the cold that fumbles our fingers
An early bird trills a few notes; a squirrel darts across
the empty road and back. We wait and sip hot coffee.
Yawning and bleary eyed, we salute the breaking dawn
with flags and placards; wave cheerfully at passing cars
with tooting horns. Smile with relief as another sleepy
colleague dons hi-viz jacket and slips into place.
We count the cars that enter, cheer those who turn away
Are courteous enough to those who stop to explain,
Take note of others who are rude or drive at speed Scabs!
We ebb and flow. Come and go. Not many stay to the end.
Phones ring. Numbers are compared, collated, passed on
and up the chain. By ten o’clock all are inside who are
going in to work. Time to pack up. We tried!
Breakfast? Yeah, breakfast. Then reporters arrive.
Cue general chanting and flag waving from those
hardy few who remain, steadfast, to the end.
A fifteen-minute interview and Steve in his element
at ease with the cameras, reeling off facts and figures
An all-day breakfast in town, washed down with cider,
while we thaw and dry out and grumble about the weather
"Why can’t we have a strike in the summer for a change?"
Then home to watch our two-minute slot on the lunchtime news!
Eileen
Eileen
25th September 2021