Wet afternoon archaeology

sends me dreaming back down

the damp streets of old Cwmbran.

Greyscale sketches of Christmas’s long gone

when we scampered and fought

while age sat weary on the family’s creaking roots.

Deep beneath our skipping feet

in shoes already tight,

ancient trees patiently revealed

a backyard bunker of gleaming coal,

backbreaking sacks marbled

with seams of old finger nails,

tarnished brass, graft and poor bright birds,

fuel for the fire to warm our tiny hands,

then turn to ash to feed the springtime roses.