Finding My Voice

And can I speak of long-dead afternoons
In smoke-blackened midland market towns
With something approaching affection?
How our elderly women would shuffle
In their sensible shoes, woollen over-coats,
How the factory hooters moaned
Like betrayed lovers?

And can I write of hurt and loss,
Of grief and sex and misery
Amidst the dirt and grime and dust,
The dearness and sweetness of life to me
As I exploded into consciousness?

And can I use the words of the blessed,
The dead colliers, their sorrows expressed
In half-whispers in public bars
Or corners of municipal libraries
Of the avowed decency of it all?

Then speak of how the parting was like a frozen kiss
Trapped forever on the hapless lips
Of a forsaken mistress?