Art, Poetry, Politics, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Two Lorries

Two Lorries  It’s raining on black coal and warm wet ashes. There are tyre-marks in the yard, Agnew’s old lorry Has all its cribs down and Agnew the coalman With his Belfast accent’s sweet-talking my mother. Would she ever go to a film in Magherafelt? But it’s raining and he still has half the load To deliver farther on. This…

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