
The Wood Pit Explosion
Seventh of June 1878
The wood pit families gather to bury their dead today
The Coffins pulled by black horses, through the town
Loved ones walk on ahead and gather on pavements
Heads bow, tears flow, as the funeral coaches pass by
One final journey through their town before rest
Everyone lined Gerrard Street, families shabby dressed
They try to put on a brave face, yet they just cant
Inside remembering that day, they just want to sob
Men and boys died that day underground
Families up above in pit yard , gathered around for news
Is this really happening, could it just be a dream
Two weeks ago all was well, then the explosion came
It left behind the scene Described a dark hell
Men and boys lay dead underground, Pit bosses rang a bell
Everyone knew when the bell rI gave lives had to be lost
At the top of the pit, weeping families gathered around
Crying wives and mothers and sisters weep
Children not understanding their fathers dead
Men are buried Underground, they can't get out
Women wept hoping they would be brought out fast
Not knowing the coal miners had breathed their last
It was too late the nightmare unstoppable, had already began
Two solid weeks before everyone was brought up to pit yard
Suffering from heartbreak. The families of the dead are dazed
So sad, so many missing, so many dead all gone
Women wondered how to carry on from here Just How?
In some families four, five, or more members were gone
how can we feed our babes now mothers weep and wail
With their husbands gone to an early eternal long sleep
Today the township Ashton in Makerfield is a sorrowful site
Tragedy has happened, and no one can put it right
Much love men and children being this day lay to rest
we loved you all more than words could say,
Please bless the ones that are behind, on the very sad day
Wives cry, how do we get understanding, why did this have to be
How do we get peace of mind, please some one tell me
The wood pit explosion, a tragedy that was so unkind
A memory that no one should have to keep
Just a horrible tragedy, weep mothers and wives weep.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️



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