The faint smell of whisky, cigarette smoke and fresh coal,
Warmth from the blazing hearth caresses my spine.
Sat on a mottled carpet with a sheet of crumpled newspaper,
The gilded box emptied, its precious contents strewn across the floor.
Each plastic round a shining gem;
Sifting through swathes of garish jewels,
A flash of apricot, a glimmer of silver shimmers
from deep in this glut of great beauty,
As Jack has a fag, sat in his armchair.
Panning through a jaded treasure chest,
Its vibrant cache rousing childhood memories.
Memories of a dying world,
Of battered coal sheds, of the Pools,
And of buttons.