The tormentor unexpectedly tormented by lost youth.
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Air cloyed with sugar and the driers fumes,
a constant rumble of tumbling beets,
eight thousand tonnes a day
falling through the knives,
whilst stone rattled in the lime kilns throat,
and the shrieking boilers blow down roar
numbed the sense of all.
For hours the klaxon has not called
so the fitters and apprentice pause
like mercenaries awaiting war.
There is no silence on this site,
their only sanctuary is in the Stores
where Tom, who’s on his last Campaign,
keeps open house for all
amongst the oiled and labelled spares.
The freshness of the apprentice soured the older man
reminding of his shelved and wasted life.
In a crude device to subjugate the novice
his strong Suffolk voice spoke of ‘sex’
recalling for the fitters an early memory,
and amuse them with the boy’s unease.
Suddenly Tom’s voice broke
the story was no longer told from envy
both were of equal age, and memory was on his lips
speaking words a distant girl had murmured in his ears
“Doon’t stop! Ya hurt me noicely boy!
The telling fell to silence.
I knew you would recognise a poem when you saw it Mike!
Very fitting!