(version 3)


‘What do y’ want wi’ them?’
I watch her wiggle red teeth from mud
leaving black sockets in crust.

Sky presses violet fangs,
soaking the old bricks in tarnished light.
No clunk, no whir, no purr, no thump

at Upper Scholes echoes the mauled pit head;
bramble nets have crept
dragging it to earth.

She cradles a brick like coarse gold,
peers into it, then up across the field.
It holds a hologram perhaps? A map cut out?

Eyes square a post-war council house,
Victorian back-to-backs stooped yonder.
Into the brick.

She snaps to Felkirk’s wind scoured Tower,
the smut spire soaring Royston,
back tracks along the old coal path

to our relic stack.
Fingers sink into her brick, picking out
the fired words: “New Monkton Collieries”.

I catch her eye at last.
“What is it?” I ask
“22 carat brick?”




(Version 2)

What do y’ want wi’ them?’

I watch her wiggle red teeth
from mud
leaving black sockets in crust.

Her grip jaws worn brick,
caging the sunk fired words
“New Monkton Collieries”.

She awes her rough gold;
peers into it, then out across the field.
It holds a hologram perhaps, a map engraved?

Eyes square a post-war council house,
Victorian back-to-backs stooped yonder.
Into the brick.

She snaps to Felkirk’s wind-cut Tower,
smut spire soaring Royston,
back tracks along the old coal path

to our relic stack.
Sky presses its violet fangs.
Hands open, speaking the brick.

Meeting my eyes, she laughs.
“What is it?” I ask
“22 carat brick?”





(Version 1)



‘What do y’ want wi’ them?’

I watch her wiggle red teeth
from jaw mud
leaving black sockets in crust.

Her fingers awe the sunk fired words
“New Monkton Collieries”
like marble lattice from the Taj Mahal.

She prays a brick between her hands,
peers into it, then out across the field.
It holds a hologram perhaps, a map engraved?

Eyes square a post-war council house,
Victorian back-to-backs stooped yonder.
Into the brick.

She snaps to Felkirk’s wind-cut Tower,
smut spire soaring Royston,
back tracks along the old coal path

to our relic stack.
She shuts her odd pentangle,
raising worn brick up to light.

Meeting my eyes, she laughs.
“What is it?” I ask
“22 carat brick?”