The Day After The Night Shift

Soond of the latch, door opens with a creak,

He’s back safe, last night shift, end of week.

Fry up aroma wafts and weaves its way to my nose,

Mmmm! Bacon and eggs, I’ll have one of those.

6 Cheviot’s a dour place after Dad’s nightshift,

Day’s ganna be lang, as a family we’re definitely adrift!

‘Ssssh! Dad’s been on nights!’ in hor whispering shouty tone!

Our faces tell a story and we let out a massive groan.

It’s a rainy cold day to mek matters worse,

Fire’s on, but covered by Wor Mam’s claes horse!

Movement upstairs, we freeze where we stand,

He’s up! Gonna be no elegance from this nightshift man!

The creak of the stairs means he’s coming doon!

Oh no! Our Father has risen, far, far too soon.

What we ganna de for the rest of the day,

If we utter just one wrang word, he’s ganna mek us pay!

This canny, chatty man now morphs into some Dickensian character,

Grumpy, silent and bedraggled and absolutely no laughter!

His face tells a story of hard work, and lack of sleep,

Coal-dust eyes, and an ashen-like face; he needs to count more sheep?

He sits in his chair, Daily Mirror and mug of tea in hand,

You can tell he’s not gonna join this world’s merry band!

But he’s Dad, and we all know the pitman’s crack,

He’s day shift next week and life is so much more on track!

John Robertson

John is a member of Morpeth Poetry Group, and is also a dialect spoken word performer at Morpeth Northumbrian Gathering. Much of his poetry celebrates his upbringing in a Northumberland mining community. He left the area at 18 to join the Royal Navy’s Submarine Service, before returning in 1997 to become a primary school teacher with an emphasis on PE. He still teaches PE on a self-employed basis.