Scraping not the sky, but by

Worst areas for child poverty are in London

The Independent, 10 January 2012

Your eldest brother, whom you'll know

by the dried scent of my tears, awaits

you on the distant bank, my fleeting child;

beyond the towers of Barclay blue

and Citi red, a kindlier place

than those you've known, where floors and walls aren't cold

and damp, where supper costs a smile;

so sweetly sleep and in your dreams

around you fold my lullaby, and warm

fresh tears I'll shed upon that veil

that he who waits beyond the Thames

shall know you for his kin as you shall him.

The rain has stopped, I've heard that frost

is coming to this shadow land;

where no sun lights the grassy cracks no March

could come too soon; we'll feel full force

this Winter's spleen before respite's at hand.

Remember us, oh fleeting child, the wretched

who must hourly bear your loss;

there’s nothing spare to keep the fire

alight, nor sate the bailiff’s avarice;

he’ll have the bed from under us

and repossess these rags we wear;

for bread and wine we’ll take the Eucharist.


(c) 2012 Slush Poet