Drift

There is a body lying
on Waterloo Bridge, tucked in tight
to the wall as though blown like the dead

leaves tossed into drifts
by a wind as unfeeling as unfelt,
covered only by a dog-stained sheet.

I would stop if it weren’t too late,
lift the sheet if it weren’t so dark,
touch his cheek if it weren't so cold;

but it’s late, it’s dark, it’s cold,
I pay my taxes,
my conscience should be clear.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet

Mass evacuation

Homeless families expelled from London by councils

The Guardian, 5 November 2012

We had been at war so long
we often forgot we were at war,
looking to TiVo to keep us safe
by serving up only palatable news.
Our world was an agreeable place
to raise children, browse the stores,
catch the vital episodes
of our favourite TV soaps.
We welcomed the blacks, the Irish,
the Poles, but then came oligarchs
fleeing their own revolutions
exporting our soil. War children
once again left London by rail
this time labelled ‘do not return’.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet