The coalman cometh
Black-faced bag haulers
Opening gates and
Rattling door knockers
Full of beer
And frozen breath,
Folding empty bags
In relief
Dreaming of that lunchtime pint.
Leather aprons and
Steel toed boots
Leaving trails
Of glistening coal dust
Fresh from Myther Tydvil
Down the hallway
Past the sizzling bacon
Into the coal hole
At the end of the garden
Where they hid
From the Jerry's
And doodlebugs
While London burned.