It Was The Cheap Polish Coal Poem by Francie Lynch

It was the cheap Polish coal
Sweeping down from chimney and slate,
Staining windows, levelling off
At doors, settling on walks;
Proving my hurrying
To my bed-sitting room.
Prints in snow and soot.
The roses dipped,
Foxgloves closed
Against the odour.

It was the kitchen.
Tomatoes, carrots, onions
Slicing the vaporous air,
Hanging veil-like on dark windows.

I coughed.
Too many cigarettes?
I pulled out a hankie
And coughed again.
Dry nose blood stained it.
When I removed my coat
My eyes were red.
You'd notice.

Perhaps it was the above combination
You knew my eyes.

You're absence is intolerable here.
Smoke, soot, salads, seasons,
Which doesn't matter,
Are tossed lost years.
It was the cheap Polish coal.
Damn cheap coal.