EmlynText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedAn old blind man that sold you water coldCould read your face with hands bleached by stoneA chilling touch that settled in your bonesA life of mining lead made his sight bolt.The same grey dread that kept the soil unclothedWas ferried down lagoons on tiny boats To Greenfield’s Wharf where the English approachedA payload of tourists half-heartedly coaxed.To ‘water-houses’, white-washed and stilted Dressed up in ...