Poems

THE BLACK MOUNTAIN

Not a sound to be heard except Mam,
moving round our candled kitchen,
cutting me door-steps of bread
as she had for my Da.

I put on his clothes:
his cloth-cap and worn jacket,
singlet, flannel shirt and thick
moleskin trousers to protect the knees.

They outgrew me by many years
but Mam didn’t laugh or even smile
as she passed me Da’s tin box silently.

My first night underground
it was to be and my heart was heavy
with leaving my Mam and my books.

I joined the stream of men as they hobnailed
up the street towards the black mountain,
13 – a late starter – terrified of the dark
and the avarice in the eyes of rats.

My Mam stood still in the candle
And my sisters slept, dreaming of dolls.

Published in The New Writer
© 1996