The Coal Porter

Walking with sand tides
against methane winds.
A man shadowed through
gunmetal blue, seeks coal.

There were once days
of counting ways
of how to live,
He’d been told.

Where the young
sung for sixpence,
kissed girls in rock
pools for fool’s gold.

Where his Mother
sold shells, Oyster 
ice creams in front
of Punch’s violence.

Waiting for ‘Madam
Turner’s Tarot’ 
to turn her cards
to another godless child.

But then the gales 
came wilder to paint 
a soft green sea black.

Blew them off kilter to Palookaville.
                                          

The mansions, 
                                                            the candy floss shacks.

And now there are no other
days of counting the waves.
The boats twitching the horizon.
Madam Turner’s lies. 

Only the coal in his sack.