only the rich could love coal
this spat from deep within
a dark armchair
the grate of the Victorian fireplace
mocks with its sterile echo
hands like birds
accompany the voice
of this small old man in Wales
coal tattoos on the back of his hands
mark him as one of the tribe
arms swamped by his sleeves
broken by spending too long in the pits
or starting too soon or both
anger still there
fuelled by futility
the pits closed
bosses moved on
the last of his breed
counting each breath
all his young gang gone
taken too early by blacklung
or rock fall or gas
now they bloody go and plonk
a bleeding park at the pit head
civic mindedness absolving guilt
he won’t forgive
curses every long day
of his dying