The Analytical Puddler

I c’m from iron, smoke an’ grime,
Where puddlin’ men put in their time.
Me grandad’s donnies were black wi’ toil,
Stirrin’ fire, skimm’n spoil.

The furnace roared, the hammer banged,
That raw desire, it kicked and clanged.
But puddlin’ ay just ommerin’ steel
It’s sortin’ chaos, makin’ it real.

I cum from graft, from dust an’ sweat,
A workin’-class lad ay changed me yet.
I swap me tools, but not me pride,
I still walk wi’ me roots at side.

Now I sits wi’ folk in quieter light,
Still dealin’ wi’ fire, but outta sight.
I stir the soul, not molten ore,
I lissen deep, an’ open door.

They bring me rage, an’ loss, an’ pride, an’ pain,
That old black steam inside their mind.
An’ I dow judge, nor try control,
I just help ’em shape their inner coal.

Cos power ay in shoutin’ loud,
Or actin’ big an’ struttin’ proud.
It’s holdin’ fire, keepin’ it tight
Refinin’ strength, slow an’ right.

I used to think I’d fix the lot,
Be king o’ minds, all clever an’ hot.
But therapy’s shown me proper might
It ay about winnin’ or losin’, but ‘oldin’ the tension that’s right.

Ay always rushin’ in to mend,
But now I lissen, and I tend.
I sit wi’ questions, soft and slow
Cos it’s curiosity that helps us grow.

Folk want answers, black or white,
But truth ay always clear in sight.
I dow pretend I know it all
I sit wi’ not-knowin’, an’ that’s the call.

It ay easy showin’ tears or doubt,
When all yer life, yow’ve held it out.
But openin’ up takes strength, not shame
That’s where the change begins to flame.

The tissues sit close by their side,
As stories stir and truths confide.
I lissen soft, wi’ honest view
A puddler of minds, just passin’ through.

Ay need no gold upon me shelf
I brings me roots, and I brings meself.
It ay just tools or fancy degree,
But curious heart, that sets folk free.