Yesterday the colours of the land were autumn and golden but the air was all summer and heat. Golden leaves fell as I drove. At my parents we talked about family long gone, a favourite uncle who had died before I was 18. He worked in an iron foundry, before the days of health a safety at work. A pattern maker. His huge hands were like drawings, each life line etched in coal dust. Strong hands, like shovels. When his son, my cousin, spoke of them there was real love in his voice. He talked of going to meet Wes from work, looking in to the foundry. "All you could see was silhouettes moving, black figures against the flames in clouds of coal dust." The dust that filled the lines of his hands. The dust that filled his lungs. So that when he was only 63 he died. He had seemed so old to me. Physically, he was like a person from another age, a 'worker' in the true sense of the word 'grafter' from an age of industry. Working class and proud, he lived for his work. And died for it. 63. And I thought at the time he was old. And I missed him so much for so many years.