Picking up the Women
For the tradition of gangmastering, now gone for my family who were gangers for a 100 years
The pitter,patter of peacework pay.
The chitter,chatter of carrot topping.
The smitter,smatter of sugar beeting.
The splatter,patter of tight harvest rows.
The tired hustle,bustle of early pick-ups.
The tustle,struggle of finding a seat.
The tumble,rumble of transit wheels.
The click,clack of factory machinery.
The bish,bosh of quick cauli packing.
The peacock pride of tulip floats.
The mish,mash of gossip between hard work.
The hard har,har of rude,seaside jokes.
The grumble,grumble of the call to stay late.
The tush,hush of the foreman inspecting.
The knock,knock of the delivered brown wage packet each friday.
The rustle,scrumple of hands checking the weekly pay.
The ratter,tatter of the change from flower to veg.
The scitter,scatter of seeds placed with promise in spring.
The bumble bee bursting, crops showcasing summer’s reward.
The slip-slide of winters hold on the land,freezing fingers.
The chitter,chatter of the journey home.
The bragging banter of stories that could restart in the morning.
The giggle,gaggle picking up the women struck into silence instead.
The death knell of the bell calling time on life in the bread basket of England.
By Keely Mills
Copyright July 2011