SKYARTUK

last of the light

flat dark,
hidden rainbows
of black earth,
spider branches
brown and shivering.

wafery stems
dance lightly
on the meadow,
wispy as the white hair
of a distant old man.

wind talks,
chill creeps,
mud tugging at
boots with
ancient fingers.

sky bows
and day slips off
without a word,
the horses chewing
away the last of the light.

Coal Man

White oily hair
squirts out of pink scalp.
He is soft
but his shoes are made for hard labour.
Workaday trousers
in anonymous fabric.
His breath
smells of a cough sweet.
He hasn't stopped coughing since 1970.
Damp jacket reeks of underground.

'Wan' any coal butt?
Go' tonnes of the stuff under the stairs.
No' doin' anything
since the council put me on gas.'

that is as it is

august rain falls patiently,
there are voices in the rush of the wind

sometimes I shimmer like wet leaves,
calm under grey that is as it is

in sun I may creep like a midnight cat,
spooked every step by every sound

speaking words of opposition,
stacked up unbalanced until the tower falls

I am a master of projection,
of furtive hand shadows on white walls

a frown a laugh, a shout a whisper,
a mix and scatter of parts

you may see me raise my prejudice,
it is only fear of something

intangible as wind through wheat,
a dark face looking down at pale hands

I unclasp my fingers to scars,
the toil of the coal-face of opposites

No Coal

4 striking miners
didn't know what to do
living off a loaf of bread
the size of a shoe.
No one was working
except henchmen who were lurking
in black boot disguise
telling donkey jacket lies.
"There no coal to be found
underneath the ground.
It's finished don't you know it
you squirming piece of shit?"

After the unofficial strike
they got on their collective bikes
for regional regeneration
after suitable humiliation.
But years became lifetimes
lagers became limes
and those who chose to work our mines
are stacking shelves part time.