The Coal Porter

Walking with the sand tide

against gassed winds.

A man shot through

gunmetal blue,

seeks coal.

There were other days

of counting the ways,

on how to live.

He's been told.

Where the young sung

for sixpence,

kissed girls

in rock pools

for fools gold.

Where his Mother

sold shells,

Oyster ice creams

in front of 

Punch's violence.

Waiting for 

Madam Turner's Tarot

to turn the cards

into another child.

But then the gale came

and took the sea south.

Blew them all to Kingdom come.

And then were no other days

of counting the waves,

the boats on the horizon.

Madam Turner's lies.

Just the coal in his sack.