At
the heart of a village on the Durham field is the place where I
was born
We collected seacoal just to makes ends meet every Saturday morn
And we wrapped it up in newspaper balls
Sold it round the doors of the welfare hall
For this village it has black veins running through its heart
Black veins, black veins, running though its heart
Me
father worked for thirty years at the pit head by the shore
It slowed his breathing and it bent him double but still he went
back for more
And each morning he’d waken to the cockerels cry
He’d be off to the pit where you’d hear him sigh
This village it has black veins running through its heart
Black veins, black veins, running though its heart
Now
the pit wheel it stopped turning about thirty years ago
Since the welfare and the pubs closed down and there’s no
where left to go
And the old men find there’s nothing else to do
I watch them as I stand in my own dole queue
For this village it has black veins running through its heart
Black veins, black veins, running though its heart
Now
the slag heaps are all grassed over and the landscapings done
The place is a little cleaner in the early evening sun
But the heart of the village has now gone for good
There’s nowt’ left tae dee ‘cept scrounge for food
For this village it has black veins running through its heart
Black veins, black veins, running though its heart
Copyright © 2000 by Geoff Rodgers ~ All Rights Reserved