Black Leaded Grate

Ah sat t'other neet in front or t'gas fire,
Medditatin' on it's trim, neat glow.
An' likenin' it ta t'black leaded grate
Wi used ta gather rahnd long ago.

Na flickin' it's iron face wi a duster,
Na regulatin' it's fickle flames wi a knob,
It needed grit, spit an' elbow grease
ta put a shine on that 'ard worked hob.

An then wer't ashes ter riddle, flue's ta rake owt
afore't fire could bi reset.
While ivvery week it wer takken ta bits
an geean a Friday mornin's sweat.

Wi jaded joy ya put match ta t'paper, t'stides, an'
big shiny lumps a coal.
Hacked from't pit at' bottom at' street, chucked a ton
at a time in'ta t'coal-ole.

Naa when it gets dark afore teatime, an neats seem
twenty-four hours long,
When't wind rattles rain agean winder pain, an' whistles
a wild wierd wintry song...

Though life's easiest bah't t'black leaded grate,
wi it's soot an' belchin' smoke,
I miss tracin' t'pictures in it's primature hearth
an' hevin' a reight good poke!