The day leant its full weight on my back,
Grated shins, black with dust from the mine,
Lifting heavy, flopping soles homewards to where
she was waving marigolds,
Dripping dish water tears
The evening news had travelled faster
than my dragged-up feet could slope,
Up from the timbers, that
Smashed under the weight of the world
Trickling through seams of clay and sod,
Along the telephone wires
Where weary starlings whispered,
Disaster, death, who?
She was waving marigolds on a
Sunday, step scrubbed,
scraped clean of mud and dust
Fire burning and kettle hissing, gently splotching on,
I saw this from the cobbled corner
I dreaded to turn
Potato pie and strong tea, double helping
For the new man of the house,
So many boys ate well
On our street that night
On the kitchen table,
I placed the pit boots,
That didn’t fit me yet
Soon they would return,
Deep into northern soil
Digging fuel for our fires,
Amongst the ashes of our fathers
Gavin Turner 