On the slag-littered threshold,
your youngest sister dead.
Your life a flick of shadow at the door.
Hear along the mineshaft
the stories your father read,
your grandmother’s seven tongues,
your Grandpa’s cruel and canny laugh.
Slide between dark brown roots,
bump blind against walls of bones.
You never know what you will find:
Polish earth, Irish stones.


This took a long time to write–off and on from March 1999 till now.



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