The hills have masks

or at least that’s what I think dad said.

Walking the length of Warehouse Hill

you can see them over

the horizon: metal towers

with buttons of red lights

that we can see from everywhere.

We’ve got bags of

Chinese takeaway, and a free

bottle of pop because dad

told the lady it was my birthday.

I know I’ll remember this day

as long as I live,

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The coal man is here again and from the flatbed

he unloads a ton of coal with tar black hands.

Watching from the window, we hide behind the curtain

and speak softly so as not to be heard. This is our world.

And I trick you with the question of which will weigh heaviest;

coal or feathers when delivered in equal measures.

But you push me away turning both eyes toward...

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It rained forever and a day

and was freezing cold

the year you were six

and me forty two.

And it worried me sick

the thought of you;

inside forever, in bed,

not knowing what to do.

They’ll eat anything

your grandfather said,

but for two whole days

you missed your food.

And finally, unlike the sun,

cloudbursts of spots

on your nose, chin

a...

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Like

the photographs of road signs charged by light,

footprints on the dashboard

or blurred trees  stooped like men picking leaves.

Or the back of my head, the garden shed

or all the landscapes from summer days when

we turned the camera on ourselves

and photographed nothing but wind.

We send thanks

and message school friends, relatives

and people w...

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David Coldwell reads The Football at the 2013 Derwent Poetry Festival.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-jGZ58WLDvo 

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