Carnations

After the bath
she used to drag
black worms
of coal dust
from the corner
of his eyes.

He has never cried,
though sometimes -
when he thinks back -
for no apparent reason
he finds charcoal
on his cheeks.

He is clean now,
though for many years
every crease and wrinkle
on his angry forehead
was gritted with
carbon hate.

Where once stood
a newsagents
on the corner -
there now stands
a Polish grocery store
selling Polish coke.

Where the pit head stood
nothing grows
except the straw coloured chaff
of broken promises
around the concrete bases
of solidarity.

The bitter resentment
still twists
like a ragged knife
to his heart.
He still picks
at the scabs.

Pledging,
once again,
to never forgive
the vindictive bitch
who broke the back
of Fryston.