Black rain filtered down the cobble stone, catching the moon, almost making a white streak of what looked like paint, as it found the large grated drains
As morning came, transformations of colours form, as oil slick from the Lorries, brightly covered concrete bays and the smell of sweet coal raising steam from the heat of the sun and the guard man at the gate grins.. pains
The architecture of the tall green bins made of steel house, the coal in structure always there on the landscape, proud, useful but I heard a boy got stuck in one and was crushed by the weight when coal picking and I hear his screams every time I hear the screeching of the lines on the trains
See every place or small town has a short cut and the coal yard was ours and whether we used it or not I will always remember the birds singing and the sun rising with the rain pouring and the boy screaming but now it’s not there any more and no one can pass through apart from thoughts in me.. remains
I am a poet through and through and anyone that tells you different you must deny it and slap them across the face very roughly indeed. I love the normal things in life and turning them into mysterious meaningful emotionally attached fascinating object or subjects.
When it comes to you landing gently in your soul, and plants its loving seed. How do you accept? With a heart full of gracious thanks that wipe away all those long, dark and lonely nights. Or treat it with