playing happily
muddy shoes
grubby fingers
dusty face
watching me gran
pegging clothes
grey wisps in the wind
brushed away with trembling fingers
coal piled high
on the street below
waiting for the men to come home
down near the river
rusty rails filled with rubbish
bare brown mountains
empty houses
the men swaying home
faces black
pockets full of lambs tails
knowing the shifts would end soon
and me, not knowing
more poems
and never will
you didn't deserve it
the card
little red magnets
cursing softly
that's not living
that's despair
barely touching
the faintest of whispers
so much
all my reasons
that's why she's here
who did that to you
already dead