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Well, as I thought I've got the era slightly askew as regards something I'm doing. Thanks for help
This is one I did earlier. You can read it if you like. Or not, as the case may be.
Landscapes
Growing up with slag heaps
gave him an uncommon sense of beauty.
He loved their bulk on the horizon
peaceful as hills;
and in the evenings bronze skies
would stall bed-time, liquid-hot metal roaring
from furnaces, breathing like dragons,
settling against odds
into cool shapes. With never a warning
of the change in focus,
the years on night-shift curtaining vision.
Days and seasons lost identity
and living made him dark,
forsaking of childhood rhythms.
His children grew beyond him,
he disliked his wife. And bitterly he saw,
when all was done, no stone would mourn
the great dead masses of the Works,
when they were razed and landscaped.
Only these alien trees, those tutored flower beds
to purge the molten anger of a life,
snarling far miles from home
into a gentler mantling.
Cautious he steps abroad,
finding what, unseen,
has always pressed the walls of town.
The air breathes softly
releasing the dry heat of recent summer.
He gazes over purple sweeps of moor
where only sheep live.
In valleys, falling leaves
gently besiege villages,
and wintering birds circle
half-clothed trees. Unseeing,
he sniffs wood-smoke, rustles underfoot
crisp foliage, stops to test
bark of birch and oak.
In the last late streaks of darkening sun,
he climbs a ridge,
his slow form silhouetting against twilight.
An old vagrant breeze
slinks at his collar.
Details merge and darken.
Hilly shapes become familiar.
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