By Alvaro Directo

Oh those cold days, Father got up early,
Put his clothes on and washed the sleep away.
The trek to the coal mine and back. Maybe.
He called out, but I didn't answer that day.
Soot: the black powdery substances that glues
With the sweat, burning and blinding the eye.
Why did I not call back? Why refuse?
Silence answers and he leaves with a sigh.
He shall try again tomorrow morning.
But why? What drives him, I do not know what.
The constant sound of tool on stone, scraping.
And the darkness covered them. Like soot.
What did I know? Love; I did not know then.
Oh, the loneliness and regret of men. 

Adam Thompson