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We never knew a cold house until that year,
when the coal stopped being delivered in
diamond-studded landslides in the back lane.
The bunker in the garden, with the red
rust lid, empty. And the winter cold,
as all the seasons are up here,
where roads reach peaks and begin
their downward spins, back along the ridges
and the slagheaps, straining under terraces
of unworked men, their tired wives, the hungry kids
sucking at the icicles on the sills for lollipops.
Tracey Rhys is an award-winning poet and non-fiction editor from South Wales. Her collection Bathing on the Roof will be published in April 2025. Lollipops will appear in We Not Me, an anthology of contemporary Welsh poetry from Culture Matters.
Poetry submissions to thursdaypoems@gmail.com
