Helen, astride her skewbald pony, 
smut-faced, riding bare-back, 
collecting sea coal in threadbare sacks 
while her brothers watch from the herring shed,
eyes narrowed against outsiders 
as they wait for the turn of the tide 
forty years ago.

The Raven brothers with a broken barrow, 
tow-haired angels with hands soot-black, 
stalking Joe’s wagon through the town, 
collecting scattered nuggets and snips of slack, 
not daring to head back home 
without enough for the stove.

Paddy French when the mine closed down, 
Pete when the Canny Lass was scrapped, 
believing — for a while — in promised jobs, 
shirt cuffs concealing their tattooed past.
But all eyes have narrowed against the future 
now that the tide has turned.