Gentle light should enter these open eyes slow.
Sat on slagheap blue sky midday watch flit white
clouds pass shadows over pit, ripple and flow
girded redbrick coal washery
over bright

puddles, empty slurry tanks, across concrete
bunkers of unused sand, lime. gravel.
Recall
dark days ago nightshift veins freeze
blood heat
ice encrusted hands on ground concrete
hurt all

when I fell one snowed Winter day heavy
weight
hauls postal bag down, I slip on an iced drift
to letterbox bottom of door number eight.
I push prise open. Whole hand with letter lifts

sprung letterbox fringed with sharp stiff brush drops cold
letter quick pulls out and metal lid slams shut
in face. Shadows never what they seem in
bold
iced night. Come morning bushes, metal gutted

old men slumped down after pit work, cloaked gentlemen.
Whoever I meet wants to hurt these eyes. Brash
people are like harsh lights snapped on. They urgent
my thought. I do not think fast. Slow thought clouds pass.

Last girlfriend she dimmed harsh lounge light before sex
on sofa. Her ten year old son she said
did not
know we had sex would call out, ‘Mum. When you fetch
ing to bed?’ Like a harsh light, or rushed
reflex.

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