The beginning of December
To the finish of February
Three months of winter
Besets England each year.

In the coldest weather
Each exhale, mists the air
As do gas fumes
From gas boilers.

Those lucky enough
To be able to afford
Such heating in their
Homes, are many.

But rough sleepers have the hardest times
What little clothing padded out
With newspaper, or cardboard
No comfortable bed for them.

Often harassed by security
Guards determined to move them on
Pitiful bundles of lost humanity
Each with their heartbreak story.

Not an existence to be chosen
Often, their pathetic belongings
Stolen, by others
To either sell or hide as their own.

The have and have not
Are in every society
A paucity of compassion
Pervades the comfortable.

Once on that downward spiral
Life eludes reality
Eventually, death seems welcome
The alternative – to trudge the streets again.

A few kind strangers
Might give a few coins
To satiate their piety
Few will actually give genuine help.

The charities Shelter, or Crisis
Help with their limited funds
Safe clean beds at a premium
The Government in denial.

Our selfish greed
Hides in the presence of need
Should we not, sow the smallest seed
And grow, as our smirks recede.

Mike