Yorkshire tea

There's a photograph I lost down    
the back of some old pine drawers,
black dyed hair spiked like a punk  
and morning stubble,  
sitting thin in a mohair jumper  
and ripped jeans.
  
My voice was cigarettes  
through nicotine stained fingers  
hands cupped around a steaming brew  
its vapour trail captured the cold  
collateral of work away digs.  
   
In the background a cluttered kitchen  
you can just make out the box  
of Yorkshire tea, I can still see the deep  
gold swirl, strong enough to stain rocks,  
sweet enough to keep in a smokers cough.  
It only takes a sip and I am back in my bunk  
with a half covered, ready to dunk.