Shells

All day like an automaton
She fits the shells into a gauge
Hour after hour, to earn the wage
To keep her and her little son:
All day, hour after hour, she stands,
Handling cold death with calloused hands.

She dare not think, she dare not feel
What happens to the shells that she
Handles and checks so carefully,
Or what, within each case of steel
Is packed as, hour after hour she stands
Handling cold death with calloused hands.

- Wilfrid Gibson

[shuyan]