The Knocker-Upper

Lyrics

Before the first smoke.
Before the first steam whistle cries.
Just the gaslight on the wet stone.

A list of names, a handful of pence.
My ash pole, cold in my grip.
Number 4, the weaver's window.
Number 12, the boy for the pit.
I knew their shifts, I knew their sleep.
A chalk mark on the sill to show I've been.
A promise kept, a debt to keep.

Tap, tap, tap on the glass, get up now.
This is the sound that starts the town.
I am the clock before the clockwork came.
I am the hand that speaks your name.

I never see the faces, just the breath.
A white bloom fading on the pane.
A shadow stirring from a little death.
Ready for the furnace and the rain.
Mary Smith with her shooter of peas,
a rattle on the glass for tuppence a week.
More reliable than any breeze.
The human word the factory has to speak.

Then a new noise started in the rooms.
A little brass engine, sharp and shrill.
Buzzing in the silent, sleeping glooms.
Making the time stand deathly still.
My list grew shorter, name by name.
The slow oblivescence of my beat.
A ghost tapping in a wind-up game.
Down an empty, ticking street.

The pole is leaning by the door.
The chalk is dust, the list is ash.
No one listens for my footfall anymore.
But listen now.
This song is the pole against your glass.
Wake up.