Smog

Smog, filthy, thick smog and the bitter cold,
fills my mind as I think back to my childhood.
Our noses would be black with it,
our lungs clogged with it.

Worse of all was the zero visibility,
a mugger's delight and a child's nightmare.
We would walk in groups, with torches,
trying not to trip or fall.

Inside my bedroom window, ice would form
and outside I'd see stalactites
hanging like daggers,
beautiful.

Each winter we'd freeze and shiver
with only one small coal fire to heat
a two up, two down
terraced house.

I used to wait for the coalman
by the alley, where our gate was.
He'd black hands, dirty face
and a broad grin.

poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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