Coal. Image by Ottr Dan via Unsplash Helen Cook A valleys boy I am from the village whose houses packed tight against the lowering tips. Livid as the wings of the Devil they were. My uncle’s house did smell of the coal in cobbled yard, bunker, parlour, scuttle, a shovelful glowing in the grate of the back room that’s no longer there; all his street crushed, Uncle Dai too sleeping o…
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