Glass Ceiling Poem by Peter Hall

I was born in Green Valley, west of Liverpool, west of Sydney, Australia.
It's like being born in the Bronx, or Tottenham, or Shankhill, or Govan in Glasgow.
I might as well have been born there too.

Where those of Green Valley's DNA
Kiss the ground with a bent neck, and are proud to do so
When they look up, their face smears on the glass ceiling
But they can't feel it.

The only escape is a poor paying job
So they keep saying.

There is no door with a happy label on it,
Or a sign that says 'this way to an improved life'.

So here I am in Scotland.
I went through the unnamed door
I think it was called 'risk'.

It broke the glass ceiling.