THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT

There was nothing the government could do.
One million public sector workers –
The last people you’d ever call shirkers –
Earned less than forty pounds a week. Today,
That insulting, pitiful rate of pay
Would equate to three hundred, maybe less.

Apart from the work, imagine the stress
Of trying to support a family
On such a pittance. In January,
One and a half million staff walked out,
The justice of their cause never in doubt,
For a sixty-pound minimum wage. Not,
Of course, sufficient to stop the rot.
A sharp rise of fifty per cent, they knew,
Was not on the cards, but what could they do?

All public buildings were closed, libraries,
Museums, parks, leisure facilities,
Schools ansd colleges, universities…
There were no cleaners or cooks, if you please.

Throughout the NHS, emergencies
Only; in some cases, not even these.
Grave diggers refused to bury the dead
In Liverpool. Dig your own graves instead,
Relatives were told. I shall call a halt.

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