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