The Black Belt

Gruff trams and trains criss-cross and intersect
With glittering steel this leprous countryside;
Pyramid slagheaps threaten, seamed and specked
With smouldering pink: a lively trade is plied
In coarse flamboyant clothes and gaudy sweets
And all the brave romantic merchandise
Folk make the most of, being poor and wise.
In unimagineably squalid streets,
Ranked rabbit-hutches, citizens do dwell, –
Weird, gnome-like men, shrill women and their young,
Most piteous young! Where Heaven is seared to Hell
With steam and smoke from demon valve, or stung
To crude geranium from the furnace flares,
There’s life and love, much talking and much drinking
In this black bunch of towns, and bitter thinking
On why and wherefore of the world’s affairs.
That ship be sped and tool or weapon forged
And laughter quickened round a million fires,
The miser pit-heads will be daily gorged
With stunted peoples of these pock-marked shires.
Like goblin print upon a yellow page
Forested chimneys spell their rigmarole;
The fungoid mine spreads canker in the soul
To feed the sinews of an iron age!