Poems By Simon Beechinor

This poem, of a stevedore mourning the passing of a way of life, is written as a villanelle, comprising five tercets and one quatrain of ten syllables in each line with a formal and distinctive rhyming pattern. The Stevedore The city docks stand idle and forlorn, And aged warehouses lie decaying, The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. The long grass grows between the cobbles worn, By the tides of men and cargo passing, The city docks stand idle and forlorn. The ships, seamen and stevedores have gone, Now, few hold memories of our calling, The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. Who remains to hear the gang foreman's scorn, Saved for those who avoid fair labouring? The city docks stand idle and forlorn. Or board the meat-boat in the early morn, Holds full from her Kiwi coastal's loading? The sky weeps soft and gentle tears to mourn. For one last time, I pass those gates well-worn, My memory, like the tide, is ebbing, The city docks stand idle and forlorn, The sky we

This is the story of Alf, a cleaner whom I once knew when he worked in a factory in South Wales. Like many people who perform such work, Alf seemed invisible and most people never spoke to him. I developed a friendship with him, of sorts, and his story is one of the most remarkable I've heard. He deserves his place in history, and it's to him that I dedicate this poem. The old cleaner bent to his mop, And swabbed the washroom floor. ‘You surely must have been there, Alf, What d’you do in the war?’ He was small, silver-haired and stooped, Invisible to most. He rarely spoke; a quiet man, In his simple work engrossed. He looked long at the mirrored wall, And a younger man replied. ‘Oh, I had a busy war, boy,’ And he spoke on with pride. ‘I was a miner here, in Pontypridd,’ His lilting voice compelled me, To pause, to stand and listen well, And so he told his story. ‘Over two hundred of us left, We volunteered to fight, ’Gainst Franco and the fascists, To help freedom in her plight