Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PLATELAYER, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Tapping the rails as he went by Last Line: But he was tired, and it must wait. Subject(s): Labor & Laborers; Work; Workers | ||||||||
Tapping the rails as he went by And driving the slack wedges tight, He walked towards the morning sky Between two golden lines of light That dwindled slowly into one Sheer golden rail that ran right on Over the fells into the sun. And dazzling in his eyes it shone, That golden track, as left and right He swung his clinking hammer -- ay, 'Twas dazzling after that long night In Hindfell tunnel, working by A smoky flare, and making good The track the rains had torn... Clink, clink, On the sound metal -- on the wood A duller thwack! It made him blink, That running gold... 'Twas sixteen hours Since he'd left home -- his garden smelt So fragrant with the heavy showers When he left home -- and now he felt That it would smell more fresh and sweet After the tunnel's reek and fume Of damp warm cinders. 'Twas a treat To come upon the scent and bloom That topped the cutting by the wood After the cinders of the track, The cinders and tarred sleepers -- good To lift your eyes from gritty black Upon that blaze of green and red... And she'd be waiting by the fence, And with the baby... Straight for bed He'd make, if he had any sense, And sleep the day; but, like as not, When he'd had breakfast, he'd turn to And hoe the back potato-plot: 'Twould be one mass of weeds he knew. You'd think each single drop of rain Turned as it fell into a weed. You seemed to hoe and hoe in vain. Chickweed and groundsel didn't heed The likes of him -- and bindweed, well, You hoed and hoed -- still its white roots Ran deeper... 'Twould be good to smell The fresh turned earth, and feel his boots Sink deep into the brown wet mould, After hard cinders... And, maybe, The baby, sleeping good as gold In its new carriage under a tree, Would keep him company, while his wife Washed up the breakfast-things. 'Twas strange, The difference that she made to life, That tiny baby-girl. The change Of work would make him sleep more sound. 'Twas sleep he needed. That long night Shovelling wet cinders underground, With breaking back, the smoky light Stinging his eyes till they were sore... He'd worked the night that she was born, Standing from noon the day before All through that winter's night till morn Laying fog-signals on the line Where it ran over Devil's Ghyll... And she was born at half-past nine, Just as he stood aside until The Scots Express ran safely by... He'd but to shut his eyes to see Those windows flashing blindingly A moment through the blizzard -- he Could feel again that slashing snow That seemed to cut his face. But they, The passengers, they couldn't know What it cost him to keep the way Open for them. So snug and warm They slept or chattered, while he stood And faced all night that raking storm -- The little house beside the wood For ever in his thoughts: and he, Not knowing what was happening... But all went well as well could be With Sally and the little thing. And it had been worth while to wait Through that long night with work to do, To meet his mother at the gate With such good news, and find it true, Ay, truer than the truth. He still Could see his wife's eyes as he bent Over the bairn... The Devil's Ghyll Had done its worst, and he was spent; But he'd have faced a thousand such Wild nights as thon, to see that smile Again, and feel that tender touch Upon his cheek. 'Twas well worth while With such reward. And it was strange, The difference such a little thing Could make to them -- how it could change Their whole life for them, and could bring Such happiness to them, though they Had seemed as happy as could be Before it came to them. The day Was shaping well. And there was she, The lassie sleeping quietly Within her arms, beside the gate. The storm had split that lilac tree. But he was tired, and it must wait. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER WORKING SIXTY HOURS AGAIN FOR WHAT REASON by HICOK. BOB DAY JOB AND NIGHT JOB by ANDREW HUDGINS BIXBY'S LANDING by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON BUILDING WITH STONE by ROBINSON JEFFERS LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS IN CALIFORNIA: MORNING, EVENING, LATE JANUARY by DENISE LEVERTOV |
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