A poem reflecting a childhood in a West Cumbrian mining community.

A poem reflecting a childhood in a West Cumbrian mining community.
A gathering of anonymity.
Sameness stared out from under blackened brims.
Banksman, Bogyman, The Fu-Fu Gang…
lips like cherry blossom
with a beachcomber smile
her weather-worn hands
scratched and scraped
through seaweed and shingle
for a few cobbles of coal
when her back could bend no more
the Solway Firth sang her home
a morning’s graft exchanged
for an hour in the warmth
Grandad taught him how to make a coal fire. He would wait to hear the outside coal bunker being rattled, then grab his blanket and run downstairs, taking pole position on the sofa overlooking the fireplace. Something hypnotic floated in a cold morning air. A soft hush from ash, shovelled from under the stool-grate and placed on yesterday’s headlines. Miner’s hands turned and twisted; paper turned into perfect firelighters. Precision and experience constructed beds of coal and kindling. A strike of a match, the thud of a damper. Golden glows filled the room. He laid back and breathed in the magic.