There are no trees, but there’s plenty of coal.
My gran butters crusts and I dream of cake
with tiny white candles, a smartie smile,
but it’s not my birthday today. Mr Jones
empties my pockets, finds some string, a house
key and box of matches. His cat’s eyes hard,
yellow fingers tapping the polished desk.
Maybe it’s your birthday today Thomas?
Smiling now he unlocks a treasure drawer,
a colour crowd of marbles, winking light,
and when he takes my matches I care not
for I’m the birthday boy with pockets full. |
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