Remember those lanes he walked after work,
past the weed-wormed car park
at the rusting colliery to the two-street
village, to catch the bookies
or straight into the Oak.
His days governed by dim light:
in boiler houses or the single bulb rooms
of boarded-up terraces – jobs no one
wanted never fazed him.
The same fanged grin at a rumour
his horse had come in, tipping me
for putting his bets on; the whiff
of piss even turps couldn’t disguise.
No family, nor home, some nights
sneaking back to the job to doss.
He was found on the edge of a field,
crushing those tiny blue flowers
I still don’t know the name of.
